Entry 1
My Two Bytes ... On Cat Lovers (a random train of thoughts)
You know what gets me? Cat lovers, that's what.
I think of myself as a scientist. I enjoy practicing the scientific method and evaluating results in order to find answers to complex quandaries. For instance, why on earth would a rational human being allow a mangy dirt bag to roam freely through their home?
In my "scientific" observations, I have noted that there are two groups in humanity: those that love cats more than children and the rest of us.
A small percentage of the population is born with an uncontrollable predisposition to love cats; it's literally part of their genetic makeup and they simply must love the little bundles of dander in order to feel complete. Let's call this Group A.
However, in another sub group of cat lovers, Group B, genetics has nothing to do with it. Group B indulges in a learned set of traits taught to them by Group A. Many that fall into this group are either men married to women in Group A or men that are complete sissies.
The rest of the human population is split up into two additional groups: The all out cat haters and those that are indifferent to mobile flea dispensers. Try to guess which group I belong to.
My experience with cat hating began at a young age. My mother is likely the sweetest woman that has ever walked the face of the earth. Unfortunately for me, she belonged to Group A, loving the vermin from the very womb. She often saw herself as a crusader, protecting the well-being of the felid race the world 'round. I was taught (putting me in the second group of love) that cats are like tiny people with emotions, that their feelings can be hurt.
My first recollection of cats occurred at the age of five. We had a kitten named Sparky. He was gray and had a "sparky" disposition. One of my favorite games was "Cops and Robbers" and Sparky often played the part of the criminal. In fact, I don't think he was ever the cop. One day the criminal Sparky was jailed in the penitentiary, which doubled as my bedroom closet. I would let him free after a few seconds and then he would be jailed again.
Unfortunately, Sparky made an attempt at a jail break during one of his incarcerations. His little head was the only thing that escaped the cell before the prison went into lock-down and the closet door broke his neck. Sparky didn't make it. It was my first experience with death and it was a hard one. I loved Sparky more than I did most people in those days.
My next notable memory dealing with cats occurred in my fourteenth year. One of the many interests that I had at the time was baseball. I played for Bramer's Hardware in the Babe Ruth league of the small town that I lived in. I was the second string right-fielder. I could drop pop flies like no other and then throw the ball so badly to the expecting basemen that they would often nearly fall over in an attempt to catch my wayward throw while keeping a foot on the bag. Our uniforms were bright white with blue trim. The adjustable, one-size-fits-all mesh hats were blue fronted to accessorize the ensemble.
One day I came home from a game and placed my baseball uniform, hat and all, on the floor of my bedroom where I could find it easily later on.
That's when tragedy struck. A skunk (who had apparently eaten a mixture of sewage and blue cheese) somehow broke into our home and promptly sprayed my hat with the most foul smelling compound ever devised by any man. Indeed, a fascist terror group would have to re-evaluate whether the cruelty involved in unleashing such a weapon of mass destruction on an enemy could ever be justified.
"Were you teasing the cats again?" my mom asked, blaming me for the incident. You see, in reality it wasn't a skunk at all. It was one of our five-odd cats and he apparently had negative "emotions" toward me. Maybe he was Sparky reincarnate and seeking vengeance.
All I knew was that I had a smelly hat and I didn't want it to smell anymore. So, I washed the hat in the dishwasher because even an idiot knows that the spin cycle in a washing machine will fray the edges of any hat.
I suppose that the hat was of the high-class dry clean-only sort because even the dishwasher proved too powerful. My hat was ruined.
The next week, my coach picked us up in his RV and drove us to the nearby town of Tonasket where we were to play a game. I was discussing the matter with my teammates. One of the more respectable ones, Reid Ruppert, asked, "Why did you leave it where your cat could pee on it?" I didn't have an answer at the time, but I suspect it had something to do with the use of a closet and death.
Later, I found a beautiful woman that was allergic to cats and married her.