One Hell of a Day in Suburbia
by Christopher Malone - Tuesday, August 12th, 2014

Adopted or not, I’m their son.

This past Sunday morning was typical. I woke up to the smell of eggs. Scrambled. After hopping off the bed, I stretched my body and exaggerated a yawn. One sock up, one sock down; yes, sleeping with socks on is inevitable with me. My lips smacked and my tongue swiped my upper lip. My legs trotted down the stairs, and that’s where turning into the kitchen is habitual.

As usual, I sat on the chair waiting for breakfast to be served to me. Unfortunately, there were no eggs being cooked on the stove. There were no eggs on the table. There were no remnants sitting upon the floor. (Floor food is fair game, and fair game is fair game.) My treacherous parents, how dare they dupe their son. Adopted or not, I’m their son. A lot is done for them on my part, and that includes property management. I patrol the area day and night for intruders, and it’s not joking when it’s said that taking a bite out of a perpetrator would come without hesitation. Perhaps it was waking them up in the early morning last night that really broke the camel’s back. Poor camel. There is no reason to wish harm on it, but there is curiosity about what a camel tastes like. I wonder if it’s gamy or tender. Rabbits are good, chipmunks not so much.

Perhaps I’m straying a little bit. It’s like hunger pangs always creep up and haunt me. Through the day, grazing on food is the way to go. Sure, I may have a little bit of a belly, but it’s nothing too drastic or concerning. Running happens on a daily basis; I stay fit, my endurance is kept in check. Being cute burns calories as well; it takes a lot to be adorable, and that fact is especially true in this heat. A constant need for a shower is needed, sometimes I bathe, and both aren’t good for the skin or the hair in the long run. Sometimes more hair falls out than expected, and some of it manages to collect in my mouth. Gee, that makes me want to hack up a lung. And vomiting is a process as well, especially when you don’t expect it. Something makes you gag, and all of a sudden you need to find some bushes.

treehugger.com

treehugger.com

Speaking of bushes. Sometimes I relieve myself outside. It happens from time to time. Don’t worry, the mess is always covered up. There is just some existential feeling about taking care of your natural business in the great outdoors.

The yard has plenty of bushes, however. The grass is trimmed. The trees are full. It’s a paradise that has been experienced for years. It’s great to get down on all fours and roll around in the grass, lying there while basking in the sun’s rays. Then some sound startles me enough to get me back on my feet again, worried, and so it’s time to find a new spot. Preferably a spot to watch the neighborhood birds go by. It gets me dreaming, wondering, and developing strategy: how can I get my grubby paws around that one, or that one, or that one? So many to pick from. Patience is a virtue, as they say.

Whoever they are.

Speaking of they. Sometimes I’ll venture into neighbor’s yards and watch them do work. This is classic entertainment. They look at me, shake their heads. They probably think I’m a little strange, sitting there and watching as they trim or plant or water or mow. Know what really pisses off a person? When they’re mowing their yard, and you walk right over to just sit in the path they have yet to go over. They have to stop and coax you away.

Photo by Christopher Malone

Photo by Christopher Malone

Usually, I’ll hang out on the porch. The cement veranda  is unusually cool in the summer, and it feels good to press my cheeks against. Other times, depending on the time and day, my butt will plop in one of the chairs — the soft-seated wicker chair in particular — and off to Nap Land I go. It’s so easy to fall asleep in the cool shade, listening to the environment. However, the neighborhood terrors, their shouting and antics, wake me, and that makes me one grumpy son of a gun. I’d go over there and teach them a thing or two, but I’m too much of a pussy to take on kids with ages ranging between three and five. One day they might set me on fire if I decide to mess with them. That does not sound fun. Thunder and fireworks, two other things I don’t mess with.

What does sound fun is this porch. That laptop is out, resting, asking to be used. There is ice in my water. I love it when ice is put in my water; sure that makes me high maintenance, but you’ll get over it. I’m adorable. You can’t say no to me. I’ll come on over, look at you in the eye, graze lightly against you, and — depending if I read your personality correctly — I’ll hop right up in your lap. You can play with my hair, kiss me behind my ears, and even scratch my chin. That will get me purring.

Just don’t ever pet my belly. Capisce? The claws will come out, and I’ll smack you around more than you’d like.

Speaking of smacking people around. You should have seen this cute bunny I chased after and brought home. That was a tough piece of tail to chase down.

And you should have seen Chris’ face on Sunday morning. Upon seeing the baby rabbit that I’d hunted down and brought into the garage. Chris was wide-eyed and not so bushy-tailed. (I crack myself up.) He stood there for a moment, and his gaze switched from me to the rabbit a couple of times. He grabbed the plastic “emergency” snow shovel that was in his previous car and scooped up the four-legged treat. It’s uncertain if the bunny was pushed down in through the slot of a sewer drain or … I dunno, eaten? I did bring the rabbit for him, and boy did that take a little work.

Cat

Photo by Christopher Malone

Hope y’all are having a wonderful beginning of the week.

I just licked my ass. I bet you can’t do that.

Much love,

Lou

Christopher MaloneChristopher Malone plays with more thoughts and words at his blog, The Infinite Abyss(es), and at Kinani Blue. He can also be found creating worlds and playing with invisible objects with the Syracuse Improv Collective.  Feel free to tweet at @Chris___Malone, or email him at cspmalone@gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

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