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You may be vaccinated. You may be agitated. But spring, and hope, and cats are marching on, and I hope you’ll come along.
I suppose we were asking too much of you, 2021. We demanded that you atone for the sins of your predecessor. We commanded that you carry all of our hopes. We thought, at least, that you could be good-weird rather than civilization-tottering-weird.
Cats do not ford rivers.* Cats do not gas up the car. To Grandmother’s house they do not go. But they travel, my word do they travel.
October and all of its surprises are in the books. Cubs in the Series. Cats in girdles. Swiss-cheesey holes in undisclosed locations.
Last night, you may have heard two seventy-year-olds yelling at each other, followed by their under-yellers yelling about the yelling. We’re not going to debate those debates here. But we do have issues to discuss.
If you have been, say, looking for some hot stuff, baby, this evening; perhaps even looking for some hot stuff, baby, tonight; this July has surely pleased you. The news was incendiary. The temperatures were ghost-peppery. And the cats were sizzling.