A Friend Indeed

Hello World, It's not uncommon to have our ups and downs in Vacation Land from year to year, and it's only to be expected that things will change, sometimes for the better, and other times - well, let's just say, not so much. I often feel that the weather on my vacation could have been improved in one way or another, at least while I'm out there with it, and the conditions are less than ideal. But you'd be surprised how often, after I come back home to the workaday world, and going about my ordinary business hither and thither as it takes me, I find myself saying the same thing over and over, "Boy, I'm glad I'm not on vacation this week!" Since I came back, the weather has been so unpredictable, and often downright despicable, so that camping in it would be unthinkable to even the most hide-bound traditionalists among us. (And the dinosaurs and I know who you are, believe me.) Not to single out this year in particular, it actually appears to be a common theme over the years, at least every other day or so, the elements are so unseasonable, or extreme, or outrageous, or record-breaking, that a person like myself, safely back from a week in the woods, can't help but watch and wonder. It frequently continues along that way in a haphazard manner, so that each week brings some fresh horror that I was grateful to have avoided while camping. In retrospect, I very often realize that I was lucky enough to have the only really good week of weather, sometimes for the entire summer, just when I needed it most on my vacation. Obviously, I owe a great debt to whoever snatches Comrade Mischka away from the controls of the Kremlin's infernal weather machine, and ties him up in a closet for that week, da? It may be starting to look like the fabled "dog days" of August around here, with oppressive humidity that is no joke, and back-to-school is still weeks away yet for young scholars everywhere. But in spite of all indications to the contrary, that's not your imagination, there really is pre-season football on television already, starting last week (do I hear the clamoring pigskin faithful saying, " ..... And not a moment too soon!") as impossible as that might seem. The crown jewel of crisp fall weekends and blustery cavernous stadiums, football seems wildly at odds with the summer staples of watermelon, air conditioners, flip-flops, lemonade, hammocks, and suntan lotion. This certainly is not your grandfather's football, by golly, where winning one for the Gipper would have required emergency ice packs, buckets of cold drinks, and break-away perforated jerseys in the sweltering heat. Turning football into a 3-season sport makes it even more of a test of endurance for players and fans alike - although admittedly, fans have the advantage of beer, of which copious amounts consumed during a game can render a spectator insensible to just about any conditions at the time. So let the tail-gating begin, and don't spare the Freezer Pops, my good man! In other sports news, I'm afraid our local newspaper will have no choice but to pack up and go out of business, if the troublesome situation with Alex Rodriguez, the Yankees' embattled third baseman, ever gets resolved, because that's been their front page story for weeks on end. They started to focus on it weeks before there was any real news to report, examining every aspect of the rumored details of the case, and pouncing on every conjecture or speculation, however absurd or hypothetical, like Derek Jeter snagging a ground ball. They moved into high gear when a decision was imminent, and have kept it up since the suspension was announced, following the appeal process with an intense scrutiny usually reserved for a candidate being considered for Supreme Court Justice. This one topic has basically commandeered the entire newspaper all this time, to the exclusion of any other sports activities or noteworthy events that may have been going on at the same time, such as actual baseball games, tennis, golf, or even that hot weather classic, beach touchdowns - I mean, pre-season football. I just love the sight of surfboards at the 50-yard-line, don't you? You'd never know it by the media coverage, but a number of other players besides A-Rod were suspended in MLB's investigation into performance enhancing drugs, including 2 members of the Mets, which you think would be impossible on a team with a woeful 49-60 record, that's 17 games out of first place already, and has a team batting average around .230, for pity's sake. Heck, if that's supposed to be performance enhancing drugs, I say the Mets deserve to get their money back from these crooks. To paraphrase the immortal words of Branch Rickey, "We could have done that without you, BioGenesis." Many long years ago, when the Invisible Cats were first in our kitchen under the sink, we had taken in another kitty we called Zanzibar, and put him in a separate room until he was more acclimated to the indoors. When he was in our backyard, he seemed friendly and peppy, with a shiny mackerel coat, bright eyes and a ready squeal of welcome. After he had been inside for a while, we noticed that he had become a shadow of his former self - thin and pale, with a dull coat, and a sad wariness that we hadn't seen before. He wasn't exactly invisible, but he wouldn't come near us, and we really started to worry about him. One day when I was sitting with him (ostensibly keeping him company, although he never did warm up to that idea) Max came in from another room, and being one of our biggest cats, I was concerned that he would frighten poor Zanzibar even more. On the contrary, Zanzibar came flying over to meet this exciting new acquaintance, and couldn't get enough of rubbing up against him like a long-lost relative, and purring madly the whole time. Max was incredibly patient with this pint-sized pest, whose need for attention knew no bounds, and he suffered the unwanted snuggling by the infatuated newcomer with good grace. I discovered that I could pat Max while he endured this canoodling, and surreptitiously reach over him to pat Zanzibar, while he was too distracted to flee. In this way over time, Zanzibar came to accept us after all, presumably on the theory that any friends of Max were okay by him too. This was a textbook example of the difference between "people cats," who crave human companionship, and others who would be described as a "cat's cat," who prefer the company of their own kind. Once we realized Zanzibar was one of the latter, we integrated him with the Invisibles, and suddenly he was in his glory - easily winning them over, with the exception of the prickly Captain Midnight, who was thoroughly immune to such blandishments. He and Puffin became fast friends, although it must be said that Zanzibar continued to follow Max around on a regular basis like a love-sick puppy, in spite of having many other cats to choose from. So after Truffle had been in our guest bathroom for 2 months, and still hiding behind the bathtub, it dawned on me that a little "cat therapy" might be just the thing. I opened the door and invited the trusty Max inside, offering some cat treats as an incentive, and he jumped right on board with this idea on the spot. Sure enough, Truffle started chirping in welcome, and trotted right out to make friends, and once again, Max was as good as gold with the new little stranger, and giving Truffle no reason to feel nervous or intimidated. A different time, I tried this with Rusty, which worked even better, since Rusty has been starved for affection since losing his beloved Flopsie, and Truffle seemed a perfect match in size and temperament. Ironically, it was Zanzibar who was too afraid to meet the new arrival across the bathroom threshold, even with Max's help, and Inky flatly refused to get near the place at gunpoint. In the "love-sick puppy" category, Truffle's heart seems set on Lucky Strike, as the two of them squeak at each other under the door - but once the door is opened, Lucky bolts down the stairs like a shot, leaving poor Truffle in the love-lorn lurch, as it were. In just a matter of days, the change in Truffle has been extraordinary, and he has almost completely stopped hiding, but stays out in plain sight, day or night, even when we go right into the bathroom ourselves with food or clean litter. He plays with just about anything as a toy, and loves to interact with the other cats when we let them in for what we call "company time." It's been truly heartening to be a witness to the transformation of a hurt and frightened feral beast, to the point where we've seen him blossom into a real cat right before our very eyes. It would not be over-stating the case to call it a miracle, and unlike the hapless Mets, I can assure you that we did it without the use of performance enhancing drugs, and I've got the batting average to prove it, Branch Rickey. Elle