Calling Kitty Home

"Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty," she screeches from next door, looking like a real life Marge Simpson in her blue towel cloth night gown and her wet hair on top of her head wrapped in a tall blue towel. It sounds like fingernails on a chalk board. Every morning I come out here to this lush sub-tropical setting to think, pray, listen to music and write. And every damn morning I hear the same thing. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." It makes me want to join the National Rifle Association. I would gladly take her and those Ferrel cats out. She collects them and has several dozen. They sleep on my car. She goes looking for them in the middle of the night with a lantern ... not a flash light, a lantern ... wearing a bathrobe with a blue towel on top of her head. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." It makes me believe in violence. The windows in my living room are across from the window in her bathroom. Watching the Braves one night, I looked up and saw her standing there ... naked! Talk about a Kitty! It was awful! I still have nightmares. One day Sarah and I were having church, baptizing ourselves in the outdoor shower, when it happened. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." "Meow!" Sarah yelped sounding like a wet thing. There was silence as the shadow from a blue towel wrapped on a wet head blocked out the sun as it passed looking for for one of those God damned cats. Talk about Dark Shadows! I need to say to my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie and other cat lovers that I worked my way through college at a Veterinary Clinic. For five years (yes ... I crammed four years into five ... and remember three of them) I showed up at 7:30 in the morning and cleaned out ... cat cages. I hate the little fur balls. I get pictures of cats and show them to Goddess. "Hate," I scream in instruction. "Kill!" She rolls over ignoring me. I understand that some people like cats. People are strange. My room mate Rocky has one. Rocky is strange. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty," she screeches again. Turning up the music, I try to tune her out. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty," she screeches. "Dear God," I pray the first prayer of the day, "please take her now. Please. Call Kitty home."