You’re Putting That Thermometer Where?

An exciting trip to the vet yesterday for his first rabies shot. He didn’t mind the shot but he was violently opposed to having a thermometer rammed up his ass. As are we all.

Mingo now weighs 5.2 lbs. and is four months old, so he’s officially a teenager. In lieu of stealing the car keys, he’s determined to escape into the yard, but I’m holding the line until after some quasi-elective surgery next month. In the words of the immortal Gary Larson, he’ll be going to the vet to be tutored. And the surgery is quasi-elective because I’m sure he’s against it but I’m not and so far I’m still bigger.

Mingo was silent both going and coming, but I brought Squeaky along for his blood test, and Squeaky sang the song of his people in the car, breaking into a full operatic rendition of that famous cat aria OMG I’M GOING TO DIE in the waiting room.

Here’s pictures of the boys. Ming’s the one in the birthday gift bag. Rainy got to stay home and nap in peace.

Teething, Plus Cat Burglary 101

Kitten gallops across the room, leaps on me, and bites my face.


Me: I don’t care if you’re the fucking Tooth Fairy, you do that again and I’m shot-putting your furry little ass out the window!

Kitten: *purrrrrrrrrr*

In other developments, Squeaky is teaching Mingo how to open cupboard doors. Literally doing demos. Help, I’m outnumbered here.

Apology, A Long Time Coming

I want to apologize for a very bad thing I did in the summer of 1970. It’s been preying on my mind, and there is no way to find the person who I injured and apologize directly. Indeed, that person may be dead. I am publishing my apology to the universe or at least to that part of the universe that has Facebook or access to the internet.

In 1970 I was hitchhiking down the coast of California. A bunch of us made a fire on the beach near Fort Orde. Several young soldiers joined us. Somehow we were talking about fortune telling, Tarot, and precognition.

I had been using my Tarot pack for divination for years and I was very proud of the accurate readings I could give strangers. I boasted. One of the soldiers challenged me to predict his future. I turned my head, looked at his face in the firelight, and said, “You are going to die in Vietnam.”

His face froze, his friend yelled at me, and they left. The people I was with weren’t too happy with me either. I tried to defend myself by saying I’d seen it and he had asked, but it wasn’t defensible and I knew it. There was no way to find him and apologize then, assuming I’d been able to bring myself to admit error at the time, so I made a private promise: I would never tell anyone’s fortune again. Ever. And I never have. I read the cards for my own fortune only, and I keep my mouth shut about it.

It was a horrible thing to have done. It was evil. I am so sorry. I have hoped, over the years, that he didn’t have the prediction in the back of his head, that it didn’t cause him to die over there, that he survived and came back whole and uninjured. I will never know, and that’s the correct burden for me to carry.