Let’s talk about guilt.
Yesterday, I was in my back yard throwing Blu for Edsel, which in and of itself causes guilt, because he loves it yet it’s bad for his bad heart. I made the decision to play it with him anyway, just a little, because who wants years of NOT getting to do what you love followed by heart failure?
Anyway, I’d seen some activity at my birdhouse as of late, with birds flitting in and out of it. And last night, I heard
PEEE PEEEE BEEEE BEEEE PEEEE!
which is one of my favorite sounds, along with coffee finishing brewing and the snap of a lipstick lid going back on.
Not snapping their lipstick. Beeee beeee peeeee beeeing in my birdhouse!
And then I remembered old murder paws, over here, and why I always gotta have cats? Lily, who never caught anything ever, hardly, is too fat to murder now. She’d have to get a gun, like Tony Soprano. And Iris, who used to kill everything in her sight, so to speak, has also gotten older and certainly blinder, and her killing days are over.
To be fair, Mil has only killed hisself one rat, and that was a quote from my neighbor last summer. “Milhous done got hisself a rat!” He seems to be more of a lover than a fighter, and joins Michael Jackson in many duets.
That doesn’t mean, however, that a birdhouse full of bald tasty helpless birds wouldn’t, you know, appeal.
So, last night, after dinner, I wouldn’t let Milhous back out into the yard. He likes to take a constitutional back there after he’s dined, but no. And, oh, that did not go over. He stomped about, mowing. He was driving me berserk, frankly.
He jumped onto the dresser by the front door and pawed at the blinds, peeking out through them the way my gramma did when her police radio told her trouble was near.
He jumped onto the tassel I have on my front door, swinging his whole body on it like Miley Cyrus with a wrecking ball.
But I stayed resolute, which actually isn’t like me, but I can’t stand to think of those
getting munched on by stupid Milhous.
This morning, as I let Edsel out, Milhous came
out of nowhere, and ran out the door.
“Godda—” I headed toward him to bring him back in, and you know what he did?
He peed in the flower bed.
He peed and peed and peed.
“Oh, Milhous. Honey. I’m so sorry,” I said, and for what I think is a first for me, petted a cat whilst he peed.
Does Mil only pee outside? I tried to think if I ever saw him in the litterbox. But it’s at the back of the house where the laundry is, so I don’t really, you know, hang out over in the vicinity very often.
So there was my guilt. Oh, I’m RIDDEN with guilt, and why is it always ridden, guilt-ridden, like how it’s always voracious reader and not some other word? Seems like if you were a reader you’d know another word, like avid, for example.
Did he have to pee all night? Clearly he did. He peee peeee peeee peeeeee!d
Oh, it makes me feel terrible for him.
And then, when he was done, he dashed off, like he does, into the back of the yard, ears back like a devil.
So now I’ve set up a roomy workstation at the window, so I can work and look out at the feeder, to make sure he doesn’t turn into Sylvester the Cat, climbing that pole to get to the birdhouse.
…There he is! That MFer. Birdhouse behind him. That’s good. He’s not concentrating on it.
I’ve been spotted!!
Nothing gets past this creature.
…I just got up to see if I can lure him back in.
But he’s dashed into the morning. Probably so he can pee freely, poor thing. So I’ll be on watch here, working on boxes of water.
What’s your guilt today?