An English In Kentucky


















Friday March 30th 2018Tim Candler9


    Very possible the Kitten is an Ingraham-esque bubble dweller. I say this as one who falls very low on the totem pole, down there with the dust bunnies, school children, socks and shoelaces. Surely not! I hear the call. Well imagine yourself settling to sleep, the light is out, the pillow fluffed, the bedding arranged and as the remaining brain cell counts the last desperate Sheep there's a rush from the doorway that bounds onto the bed and proceeds to poke you in the face with a dew drenched and muddy paw.  Even in Holy Week it's an unnecessary and untoward behavior. Nor is there the remotest chance that a virtuous or forgiving reaction from me to this sort of dead of night Attila the Hun antic could ever be rewarded with a chocolate egg. A partially dissected and uncooked vole more likely.




      It was Dewi Sant, the diminutive preacher, a forks over knives gentle vegetarian and Saint to the Welsh, who reminded us that it was the little things that count. And by little I don't think he meant the difference in size between an adult Leopard and an adult short haired domestic cat. He was thinking more in terms of being polite to each other, saying please and thank you, hope your foot's better, have a nice day or whatever. That sort of oil that enables a civility so crucial to a cohesive response to impasse. But I guess somewhere in the arena of domestic pets there's an equivalence to Likes on Facebook, and in some fifth dimension in which the Kitten has her second existence there's a You Tube channel with thousands of followers that must be satisfied so the Kitten might hold her ears and tail up high. Have to admit I'd be interested in tuning in to see what else she gets up to.



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