I picked up Sunny from the vet yesterday, and she doesn't look too good. If I could find her, I'd take a picture of her butt for you, but I can't, and you are, again, spared. I am assured by the vet that, even though she looks like she got shot in the but-tock with a hunting rifle, she is fine, she's healing well, and she can go outside and reclaim her rightful place as benevolent queen of the neighborhood. I decided, though, in a fit of concern and guilt because it was I who, years ago, booted her ass out of the house in the first place, that I would try to keep her inside as much as possible. I spread out an old blanket on the bed, and I brought her in her cat carrier into the bedroom, thinking she would slink out, tired and slothlike, and curl up for the rest of the day. Nope. The minute I opened the carrier, she was out and yowling at the front door. (The dog, on the other hand, got into the cat carrier and wouldn't come out, so I closed the door and carried him out of the bedroom in it.)
I had prepared for this eventuality, and I was determined that I would not give in to her wails and moans, and I was going to keep her inside if it killed us both. This lasted about a half an hour. With the already annoyed, bald-butted cat, and the dog, and now the other cat coming out of hiding to see what was going on, it was like a Blood, a Crip, and a Latin King in a cage match with only their fingernails as weapons. There was barking, hissing, growling, hiding, jumping whining, whimpering, and finally I couldn't take it anymore. So long, Sunny!
She slept on her bed on the front porch last night, and before I went to bed I gave her lots of loves and tried to get her to come inside. Nope. Oh well. I tried. For a whole half hour.
Here's a whole other thing: For years, possibly even decades, or however long I have been making tacos, it has plagued me that, when browning ground meet in a pan, I cannot get it really crumbly like they do in restaurants and on TV commercials. I would try with a fork to get it as crumbly as possible, and my wrist would be killing me, and fat would be splattering up into my face, and I swear I have eaten fewer tacos in my life because of this, and that is a real shame. So, the other night, I'm watching Diners, Drive-ins and Dives on the food network, and the dude is at some whatever restaurant, and the chef is going to brown ground meet for some sauce. A potato masher. A POTATO MASHER! I almost leapt out of my seat! So this morning I am making my famous (not really) pasta sauce for dinner tonight, and I get out my potato masher for the italian sausage and it is a revelation! A poem! Its like the best day of my life! Do you even know how often I'm going to make tacos, now? I know I'm way too excited about this, but I can't help it. Its the little things. Huh. Potato masher. Who knew?