Out of the Ink Well

Hello World, Well, it can't be denied that we are certainly now in the season of dads and grads, brides and proms, with enough presents and fancy clothes, parties and travel, to make the President's economic advisers positively giddy with euphoria, and that's not just the limousines talking, believe me. Somewhere amidst all of the gloom and chill recently, there must have been some sun and warmer weather, because we had roses popping open all over the yard, from the creamiest pale pinks to the deepest velvet burgundies, and all the intoxicating fragrance to go along with them. The mountain laurel also burst into bloom, while along the driveway, the daylilies are poised to put on a show of their own. Last year, we went to a lot of time and trouble, not to mention expense and effort, to add Japanese primrose to our garden, with the intention that we would be enjoying the fruits of our labors right about now - which we would probably be doing, except that we can't remember what it looks like, or where we planted it, so we don't even know where to look. Our plan is to go back to the nursery and buy more, hoping to be more successful the second time - and that sound you hear is the President's economic advisers jumping up and down and cheering, I shouldn't wonder. And what may be new and exciting in the wide world of hoops, you may be wondering, and well may you wonder indeed. Miami finally ousted Indiana to reach the NBA finals, but it took them 7 grueling games to do the deed, and it must be said that the Pacers played them tough the whole way. Now all that stands between the Heat and a second consecutive trophy would be those pesky Spurs, and it will be interesting to see if they are equal to the task, after manhandling the Grizzlies in the previous round. We all know by now that anything can happen in a short series, and there are no guarantees in the playoffs, so it remains to be seen if the results will turn out to be as sweet as Florida citrus, or as lovely as my San Antonio rose, and don't spare the champagne, my good man. In other sports news, any number of alert readers (well, actually it was Bill) have pointed out a mistake in my previous note, in spite of the rigorous efforts by our research department, and we're always happy to set the record straight to maintain the high level of pinpoint accuracy that we strive for above all else. The fact of the matter is that the Indy 500 stands for 500 miles, and not 500 laps, as the participants run a total of 200 laps over a 2.5 mile oval racetrack in order to achieve the allotted distance. We have our friends at wikipedia to thank for this clarification, as they are all over this like a bad suit, with all the details and minutiae that anyone could hope for, and some that you'd really rather not know in the first place. The average speed of 187.43 MPH set a new track record in the fabled race's history, and sounds mighty impressive - but even more amazing was that the fastest lap was run at a blistering speed of 226.94 MPH by Justin Wilson, who finished in 5th place. Heck, if he had kept up that pace for the whole race, he would have had the place to himself - and I daresay that even the ghost of Affirmed would have had trouble sabotaging his chances, and that's not just a lot of horsefeathers, my little pony. It's no secret that Bill and I recently celebrated our 30th anniversary, and over the course of that time, we've certainly had our share, and more, of stray cats that passed through our hands, one way or another - some for a short time and others longer, but each one special in their own way, even here, where it's all too easy to get lost in a crowd. Some were blessed with good looks that a modeling agency would drool over, while others had what could only be described in kindness as a face that only a mother could love. We've known cats with an intellect that was astonishing in its comprehension, and more than a few whose lack of brain power would rank them well below rocks on any test of skill. Of course, cats come in all shapes and sizes, and especially colors, and we've pretty much had them all and run the gamut, from the snowiest white to the inkiest black, and every combination in between. Along with the standard orange tabbies and gray stripes, we've had plenty of black and black/mixed, like Baudelaire, Sharlowe, Pinto, Tom-Tom, Captain Midnight and Smokey Jo, who carried the color with distinction and did it justice. Often we would have more than one at a time, but when we lost our last two within 6 months of each other, we suddenly found ourselves in a sea of gray with tinges of brown on every side, and a lone tangerine tiger to break up the monotony, but not a black hair to be seen anywhere. That all changed this week, and in a big way - in fact, to say that it was a black magic double whammy would not be overstating the case. It all started with Truffle, a skittish black neighborhood stray with white feet, who we had been feeding outside for months, although this seemed to do nothing to improve his opinion of us or people in general, and he never did warm up to us, in spite of our most determined efforts. One day he showed up limping badly, which at first deluded us into believing that he would be easier to catch, but I have to tell you this kitty was pretty spry for a three-legged cat, and we could no more have caught him on the fly than we could have snagged a Minuteman missile in mid-air - and I don't need to try that to know that we can't do it, believe me. So instead, we set out our trusty trap, and although he seemed inclined to thwart our plans, in the end he took the bait, and we lugged him and the trap to the emergency animal clinic for medical attention. A thorough examination revealed that his foot was not broken, and would not require surgery, but had a very serious abscess, possibly from a fight. They cleaned him up, gave him his shots and antibiotics, wormer and whatnot, then kept him overnight to make sure he was stabilized. We brought him home the next day, and put him in a room by himself, where he could recuperate in peace and quiet, and hopefully become more acclimated to the idea of living in the great indoors. So far, my favorite part was that they sent him home with a soft collar to keep him from chewing on the bandage, and after 2 days he had worked the collar from his neck to down around his hips, so that he looked like he was wearing a tutu. This was on a scale of Mr. T from "The A Team" wearing a tutu, so you can believe me when I say that even the dinosaurs would agree that it was a comic masterpiece of mythic proportions, and that's not just the toe shoes talking, by golly. At exactly the same moment, another cat came to our attention, desperately in need of a good home and none in sight, so with time running out and a dearth of options, we stepped in and made the dream a reality. We picked her up last Saturday, and discovered that unlike Truffle, there's nothing tuxedo about this Inky female, she's absolutely solid pitch black, all the way from the tip of her ebony nose to the very end of her (kinked) tail, and from top to bottom to boot. A further distinction is that she's also along the dimensions usually reserved for medium-sized dogs, or wildlife of the raccoon variety, and I ought to know. Now, we've had some pretty hefty critters in our day, that tipped the scale in the large numbers, with a length and girth that would make grown men quail before them, but even we weren't expecting anything like this. It's entirely possible that the Miami Heat are not in the market for anyone with her ample proportions, but I'm expecting a call from the New York Jets at any time now. (Oh, hit that easy target!) So it's been an eventful week around the old homestead lately, where we went from having no black cats at all, to having 2 in the same week, and pretty much like the proverbial bolt out of the blue, as it were. Of course, Truffle has spent the better part of the week hiding under the sink in the guest bathroom, while Inky has been secluded under the armchair in the library, so we might actually end up with another pair of invisible cats that we never see, and when we claim to have two black cats, people would think we're even more delusional than usual. Speaking of delusions, I told Mr. T that he could come and get his tutu back, but he was on his own as far as finding toe shoes, and it goes without saying, I pity the fool. Elle