Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Chats du jour: Born-again PCers
Remember how Laverne caught a chipmunk/ground squirrel/disgusting flea-ridden rodent a week or so ago?
And I was so proud?
I'm still proud, but realizing I am a bit of a hypocrite when it comes to cats killing things and my eating meat and so on.
As in, I like these things in theory and really in practice but I don't want to watch the sausage being made, if you catch my drift.
I was in the garden, picking tomatoes and picking tomatoes and picking tomatoes. And looking at the weeds, thinking, "I should probably pull those. Some day." I heard a rustling in the squash. I looked - poked the squash with my foot, which desperately needs a pedicure but the last time I went to the beauty school, she didn't do that great a job and she was only 20 and can see things up close and from far away, unlike me, who now needs glasses not only to see the TV but also to read the tiny, tiny print on the calorie label on chocolate bars, which is probably just a sign that I should ignore such information anyhow.
But if you can't read the calorie info on a Vosges Bacon Chocolate bar, then you really can't see your toes to paint them straight. You can ask The Engineer, the Most Meticulous Man in The World, to paint them for you, but you will be waiting a while for him to get around to it, as those Europeans need their report Right Now and he has to read his political diatribes so he can be Depressed About The State of the Military Industrial Complex that employs him and puts steak and frozen custard on our table and a roof over our heads, so keep shooting is what I say.
Not really. I don't want good people to die just so I might have Kopps. But a strong defense is never a bad idea.
Where was I?
Oh. I heard a rustle in the hedgerow and bent to look. Something streaked across the basil and out under the rabbit fence. The next thing I saw was Laverne, who had been minding her own business sitting under the trash can on the new driveway (also paid for by the Military Industrial Complex), with a chipmunk in her mouth.
I hadn't even seen her there. Fast and quiet like the wind, that one.
I jumped over the fence to take a closer look. Yes. She had a chipmunk in her mouth. He was staring at me.
SH had to see this. I yelled at him to come out and look. He stepped out of his second-floor office onto the balcony (also paid for by the MIC - we had to replace it when we moved in because it had been infested by carpenter ants, which don't sound like a bad thing - wasn't Jesus a carpenter? - but yes, they are and they cost you $2000+) and looked down.
"Get it out!" he yelled.
Oh. Right. Pacifist. Anti-war, supports the troops but not the war, blah blah blah.
But you know what?
I, the meat eater, the want all rodents dead-er, felt a little sick looking at the little chipmunk pleading desperately with his eyes.
I tugged at Laverne's harness to make her drop Chippie.
He fell to the ground and stayed on his back, little paws curled in front of his chest, frozen. Maybe he thought Laverne would leave him alone if she thought he was already dead.
After giving me a look of surprised betrayal - how many times had I praised her lavishly for doing this exact thing? - she grabbed him again. Fast, fast, fast.
I tugged her harness and forced another drop. Chippie still didn't move, so I pulled Laverne away from her completely fairly-won prize that she wasn't going to get to keep because of two hypocritical steak-eating sissies. I nudged him and he bolted, running straight into the rabbit fence and almost knocking himself out, which is when I started to think maybe he was too dumb to live. My feelings were confirmed when he tried to escape through the wild rhubarb, which is thick and impenetrable to chipmunks, and ended up scurrying against the leaves. However, I did not have the guts to be his executioner, so I cleared a space for him to flee.
Next time, though, Chippie, you are on your own.