An English In Kentucky


















Saturday May 18th 2019Tim Candler9


    The Kitten was missing this morning, a downward spiral for the Primary Caregiver who is an early riser, pops up like toast and is raring to go. The Secondary Caregiver has to stumble around for a good half an hour before reacquainting himself with the anything like a capacity to comprehend, a bit of a burden for others in moments of intense stress, the sort of thing that produces a little more than a raised eyebrow in a significant other. It's not that the Kitten doesn't go missing on a fairly regular basis, it's just that each time she does go missing the behavior from caregivers follows a predictably pattern from which there is no escape. I blame Bald Eagles and go directly to Franklin's excellent reasons for not choosing the Bald Eagle as a National Bird, unlike the Turkey, Bald Eagles are lazy, unprincipled thieves, but there again who knew there'd be retardation of one of the Nations Political Parties, a predictable retreat from a valuable definition of greatness into something so puerile it'll be laughed at by future generations, should there be any, inevitable really that momentum flounders, trips over itself and starts punching itself in the face in an attempt to hasten extinction, we're all doomed and it's perfectly natural, the Kittens lucky, hope it was quick. The Primary Caregiver visualizes death by Coyote in horrible detail, a terrifyingly vivid imagination that includes Coyote puppies learning to kill, and lonesome the heart becomes that searches for tufts of grey fur, if there was a corpse there'd be something to mourn, could be in the tick infested longer grass.



    Then, following a brief period of self loathing, it's all my fault, she should never have been allowed to go outside, what were we thinking, nothing wrong with a cat pan, something like stability returns. It's little reminders, the stain on the carpet where the Kitten vomited, there's her food bowl, how noisy she was when she wanted something, her incredibly aggravating habit of sharpening her claws on the kitchen rug. It's a line of thought that proceeds to a variety of acceptance bolstered for me a little by things like "at least I'm not going to have to fight for my chair anytime I want to sit down."  Soon after these elements of mental gymnastics there are hints of silver linings, a visit to the pound with the grandchild, bound to be a little kitten and nothing like a bright eyed little kitten chasing a feather to warm a little girls heart, and it's all kind of mawkish in a revolving kind of way, sentiment goes round and round in decreasing circles, it's just no wonder we're doomed. Then at 8.30 am there's a presence in the kitchen, it's four paws are damp from heavy dew, a stick-tight or two that really should be carefully combed out before partaking of breakfast, which is after all the most important meal of the day even if I just want to sniff at it, and you know I can't settle on the day bed unless I know it's there.  In the Caregivers there's a huge sense of relief, followed by a period of castigating, it's like finger wagging only with curse words and dire, entirely meaningless threats.


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