Because WGN cuts away for the Cubs, the Telethon is still on here in Chicago. Harlem Furniture has promised to double every pledge that's called in locally. I find it comforting that our newscasters can tell us that a "$125 pledge becomes $250!" I would hate to get news about Iraq, Iran, Korea or Lebanon from a bimbo who can't multiply by two.
Jerry has had a higher profile this year than last, and I'm so glad. I think being in Vegas is good for him. He leers at Jan and verbally abuses Ed. He snaps his fingers when he sings. He lets the water dribble out of his mouth when he talks. He wells up when he looks at the tote board. He banters with comedians we thought were dead. In short, he's why I tune in.
I'm not heartless. That little Luke kid who is this year's poster boy has touched me. He's so cute, and he's so into the applause and so hot for Jan and her cleavage (after all, he is 12).
And yes, I've donated. So I can sit here with a clear conscience as I am amused, horrified and aghast yet again by the spectacle of old Jer singing "You'll Never Walk Alone" yet again to children who will never walk at all.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Meet the Gang
Right now I'm surrounded by slumbering felines, and when they're asleep like this, they are just TOO CUTE! So let me introduce these adorable snoozers --
Joey: A big old gray and white tom. (The vet has referred to him as "massive.") He ended up at the local animal shelter at Christmastime, 1998, because the family that owned him could not afford his special diet. (He had recently battled a urinary tract infection.) These folks put him in a box, taped it shut and left him on the shelter doorstep with a note explaining their circumstances. While this exhibited very bad judgement, they undoubtedly gave him a lot of affection because he simply cannot get enough petting. He is especially fond of my nephew, Nick. He also loves other cats. The problem is that he's so much larger than most other cats that he doesn't understand why they don't enjoy wrestling with and being chased by him. Truth to tell, there is a lot in life Joey doesn't understand. I named him after Matt LeBlanc's character on Friends and well, he's aptly named. Joey is as dumb as he is sweet. But in some ways, he is my hero. As long as there is a sliver of sunlight warming the carpet where he can nap, his life is good. I wish I could be as happy and in the moment as old Joe is.
Charlotte Ann: A petite, no-tailed feline who is part Siamese and all diva. She came to me in early 2001 after the shelter caught fire. Little is known about her background because her paperwork was lost in the fire. The vet believes she lost her tail as a young kitten (he suspects the culprit was either a refrigerator or car door). She doesn't accept that she no longer has a tail, gesturing with the healed over stump to register her disgust when I try to shoo her out of the armoire. She is very chatty and very helpful, always nearby when I am putting on makeup or moisturizer, watching me and sharing her opinions. She hates poor Joey. Part of it is the disparity in their sizes. Part of it is that his basic existance offends her. The thing of it is, Joey forgets this and needs to be reminded anew, usually by Charlotte hiding under the furniture and hissing at him.
Reynaldo. Ah, Rey. What can I say about this skinny beige shit? I got him as a kitten back at Thanksgiving 2004. He ended up at the shelter as a stray -- they suppose he snuck out, I bet his owners kicked him out. He is a trial. I enjoy watching him sleep, as he's doing now, because when he's awake he's joyfully, inexhaustibly and imaginatively destructive. I used to chalk this up to his kittenhood, but he's no longer a kitten. The vet assures me that there is nothing wrong with him chemically, yet I don't find this comforting. I wish I could just shove a pill down his gullet and have a docile feline. But no, I have Rey. Who likes to eat books and umbrellas. Who has a vendetta going with every piece of framed artwork in my condo (he leaps at the pieces hanging on the wall, trying to pull them down, and sends the ones with easel backs sailing like hockey pucks off my desk and cabinets). He hangs off drapes. He attacks the thermostat and the light switches. When I'm on the phone, he sings and howls to divert my attention away from the caller and back to him. He steals food off my plate. He has so exhausted me with his noisy, destructive ways that I honestly have considered returning him to shelter. But I haven't and won't. I'm afraid that his next owner would do what I believe his previous owner did -- just kick him out in rage and frustration. So Reynaldo is mine and we will make this work ... somehow. The problem is that he cannot differentiate between good attention and bad attention. All attention, to Rey, is good. As in, "Oh, good! Laurie's going to play that game where she yells at me and hits me!" Or, "Yea! Here comes the water spritzer! I love that!" No matter how loud I yell, he looks at me with the same bright, delighted orange eyes. Nothing frightens or displeases him. Everything makes him happy. There is an upside to this. Joey can toss him across the room in play and Reynaldo loves it. The little boy next door, a toddler, can pull on his ears or tail and Reynaldo loves it. And since nothing scares him, he is the perfect traveling companion when I take Charlotte to the vet. When they're in the carrier together, he senses her discomfort and very compassionately grooms her ears, which calms her down. And he is so filled with love that he is oblivious to my anger. After completely destroying a tower of CDs, he'll come jump on my lap, purring and gazing up into my face.
Joey: A big old gray and white tom. (The vet has referred to him as "massive.") He ended up at the local animal shelter at Christmastime, 1998, because the family that owned him could not afford his special diet. (He had recently battled a urinary tract infection.) These folks put him in a box, taped it shut and left him on the shelter doorstep with a note explaining their circumstances. While this exhibited very bad judgement, they undoubtedly gave him a lot of affection because he simply cannot get enough petting. He is especially fond of my nephew, Nick. He also loves other cats. The problem is that he's so much larger than most other cats that he doesn't understand why they don't enjoy wrestling with and being chased by him. Truth to tell, there is a lot in life Joey doesn't understand. I named him after Matt LeBlanc's character on Friends and well, he's aptly named. Joey is as dumb as he is sweet. But in some ways, he is my hero. As long as there is a sliver of sunlight warming the carpet where he can nap, his life is good. I wish I could be as happy and in the moment as old Joe is.
Charlotte Ann: A petite, no-tailed feline who is part Siamese and all diva. She came to me in early 2001 after the shelter caught fire. Little is known about her background because her paperwork was lost in the fire. The vet believes she lost her tail as a young kitten (he suspects the culprit was either a refrigerator or car door). She doesn't accept that she no longer has a tail, gesturing with the healed over stump to register her disgust when I try to shoo her out of the armoire. She is very chatty and very helpful, always nearby when I am putting on makeup or moisturizer, watching me and sharing her opinions. She hates poor Joey. Part of it is the disparity in their sizes. Part of it is that his basic existance offends her. The thing of it is, Joey forgets this and needs to be reminded anew, usually by Charlotte hiding under the furniture and hissing at him.
Reynaldo. Ah, Rey. What can I say about this skinny beige shit? I got him as a kitten back at Thanksgiving 2004. He ended up at the shelter as a stray -- they suppose he snuck out, I bet his owners kicked him out. He is a trial. I enjoy watching him sleep, as he's doing now, because when he's awake he's joyfully, inexhaustibly and imaginatively destructive. I used to chalk this up to his kittenhood, but he's no longer a kitten. The vet assures me that there is nothing wrong with him chemically, yet I don't find this comforting. I wish I could just shove a pill down his gullet and have a docile feline. But no, I have Rey. Who likes to eat books and umbrellas. Who has a vendetta going with every piece of framed artwork in my condo (he leaps at the pieces hanging on the wall, trying to pull them down, and sends the ones with easel backs sailing like hockey pucks off my desk and cabinets). He hangs off drapes. He attacks the thermostat and the light switches. When I'm on the phone, he sings and howls to divert my attention away from the caller and back to him. He steals food off my plate. He has so exhausted me with his noisy, destructive ways that I honestly have considered returning him to shelter. But I haven't and won't. I'm afraid that his next owner would do what I believe his previous owner did -- just kick him out in rage and frustration. So Reynaldo is mine and we will make this work ... somehow. The problem is that he cannot differentiate between good attention and bad attention. All attention, to Rey, is good. As in, "Oh, good! Laurie's going to play that game where she yells at me and hits me!" Or, "Yea! Here comes the water spritzer! I love that!" No matter how loud I yell, he looks at me with the same bright, delighted orange eyes. Nothing frightens or displeases him. Everything makes him happy. There is an upside to this. Joey can toss him across the room in play and Reynaldo loves it. The little boy next door, a toddler, can pull on his ears or tail and Reynaldo loves it. And since nothing scares him, he is the perfect traveling companion when I take Charlotte to the vet. When they're in the carrier together, he senses her discomfort and very compassionately grooms her ears, which calms her down. And he is so filled with love that he is oblivious to my anger. After completely destroying a tower of CDs, he'll come jump on my lap, purring and gazing up into my face.
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