Happy Thanksgiving!

Soul Miner’s Daughter is wailing away in the back ground but Goddess won’t shut up for me to listen to them. She is standing here barking at me and scratching the chair. It is past time for her walk and the dog knows how to tell time. We are about twenty minutes behind schedule and the bitch doesn’t grasp the concept of a holiday.

If that weren’t enough my neighbor adopts feral cats and has about 2000 of them; half of which sleep on my car every night. She is standing on her back deck screaming, “Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!” She isn’t really screaming. She is screeching!

I suddenly believe in violence.

Goddess even stops and walks to the side of the beloved back deck to stare at her. Her tender loving call to the cats borders on the obscenity; finger nails sliding across a chalk board.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” she shrieks.

Goddess lies down as though someone has beaten her with a stick. She moans and puts her paws over her head.

I look over to my neighbor’s deck and see Edith Bunker in a nightgown; complete with a bandana tied in her hair. To make it worse, her sister is visiting for the holidays. There are two of them!

Goddess runs inside.

I wave. “Happy Thanks …. Yeah, whatever,” I sigh.

“Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty,” they shriek in harmony.

I use a verb and a pronoun.

The pronoun is “me.”

They walk down the stairs into their backyard, wandering around in their bandanas, one green and one yellow, in lime green towel cloth bathrobes, screeching, “Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!”

I give serious though to joining the N.R.A. Some things are completely justifiable!

If I did take them out it would be a pretty pleasant morning. The sun is shinning, it is a pleasant 70 degrees and climbing, and I have little laundry on. People who I love have texted me “Happy Turkey Day” wishes.

Johnny O called and started to give me advice on my love life. I hung up on him.

The neighbor’s mother walks out on the deck telling them that breakfast is ready. She looks like a mummified Edith Bunker wearing a dirty orange towel cloth bath robe and a red bandana in her hair. The poor woman obviously died several years ago but no one has bothered to tell her.

“Omelets,” she screeches in a way that somehow combines the capacity of her two daughters.

“Cat hair omelets?” I think as I watch cat hair fly around her as though it were a halo.

“Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!” the two sisters scream in unholy harmony.

The mother looks at me. “Happy Thanksgiving”!

I wave.

“Whatever,” I say, as I get up and fix a screwdriver.