"Ummm," I mumbled paying him no attention.
"I got all excited when you started off with Winston but then your blog fizzled out after that," Johnny O continued paying no attention to the fact that I wasn't paying him any attention.
I had more important things on my mind.
The Cat Lady has a new lover.
Looking like Marge Simpson on Meth as she screams "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!" throughout the day apparently draws a certain kind of male. A few weeks ago it was a sandy hair, crisp white shirt wearing dude driving a white Bronco. With glistening white teeth I saw him open the fuzzy pink bathrobe, raising a cloud of cat hair around them, and he shook in anticipation.
I threw up in my mouth a little.
Now the white Bronco is gone ... replaced by a brown one. He has black hair and uses product in it. His tanned chest is shaved, immaculate white teeth glisten, and his biceps bulge. She no sooner yells, "HERE KI ..." before he's on her, ripping the towel off her head, opening the fuzzy pink bathrobe and disappearing inside.
A frenzied moan emerges. A duet of MEOWs is punctuated with kitten grunts and they're lost in a volatile cloud of cat hair with an occasional arm or leg sticking out.
Goddess covers her head. Winston, the little gay dog, wearing a red sweater with the words "Closets are for clothes!" runs inside and hides under the bed.
A hundred hot and bothered feral cats seem to appear from everywhere at once seemingly encouraging each guttural MEOW screamed from her deck.
The earth moves and then ... all is quiet in sweaty exhaustion.
He stands on wobbly knees, picking cat fur from his mouth. My neighbor closes her robe with a smile and he helps her stand. They disappear inside and the hundred feral cats follow them.
I stand on the beloved back deck as witness to it all.
I'm left with only one question.
Where's a coyote when you really need one?
