The cats and I are enjoying the afternoon out on the porch. TGFWI. (thank garth for wireless internet).
I brought some work home with me this weekend. I should be getting around to starting that. Mr. Anderson is off DJ'ing a backyard wedding today so my evening is free and I have wedding cake to look forward to around midnight. He knows the rules and adheres to them fairly well: If you're going to DJ a wedding, don't come home without wedding cake for the girl.
Grouchy neighbor Stanley just fired up his grill. Throw some cut grass into the mix and it'll even smell like a perfect day.
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We're still tending to Street Widda. He's still quite elusive, but now he doesn't run quite as far, or as quickly. I just called to him from my upstairs porch and he zeroed in on me and told me rather pitifully, "mew."
That mew could mean:
Come down and feed me, Fucker, you missed my breakfast (we did).
Or.
My eye really fucking hurts, I wish I could trust you to come and look at it.
Or.
Stop fucking yelling at me from your house, what the fuck do you want me to do for you? Dance?
Street really has vulgar language. I will allow it, however, because he definitely has earned his "street cred," and if you need proof, it's in the nearly-shut eye he's sporting. Probably from a fight with rival cat gangs. I wish they could just settle their turf wars with a dance-off.
That really is the concerning part about allowing Street to live next door in the vacant house all by himself. He's just left to run completely amok.
I wonder if he could get a predatory-lending loan and buy the house himself? We should help him fill out an application.
Alrightie then. I'm heeding the mew and am going downstairs to tend to him. I wonder if Stanley will throw a couple extra steaks on the grill?
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