the one where all the cats fart

i absolutely cannot see to write with this gas mask on, so i'll just copy an email from earlier in the day.  they say nothing is ever really removed from the internet, and for that i feel most appreciative, as this may be my last missive to the world.  sure, it starts off discussing sporting events in a carefree tone, but that's just me, being brave, and setting a strong example for the domestic staff, especially young cabana boy and la bonne et belle bianca castafiore', who refuses to wear the gas mask in preference for a thick hijab, topped by a wet bandana that has also been liberally spritzed with some sort of vanilla after-shower body spray.  fred?  fred is ASLEEP.  i kissed him softly on his broad forehead and promised to meet up in the afterlife.

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andy murray beat my beloved djokovic -- the brits must be going ape shit.  

and i couldn't watch because i cannot see the freaking ball.  sniff.

on paper, this wimbledon looks to be a brave new world, all topsy-turvy.

i really do love novak... he's hilarious.  as for andy, i confess to thinking him permanently jinxed, forever a quarter finalist, or if further advanced, a practitioner of my favorite tennis art form -- the "choke."

did you watch?  and you've said nary a mot about the tour de france.  now, when i see any reference to that little bike race, i automatically yell "eff you, lance!" another weird habit to extinguish.

you'd love this.  you'd love to photograph this!  about two days ago, being as perceptive and sensitive as i am, i noted that both dobby and buddy were farting in my direction with great abandon.  i chose to ignore it -- gag, cough, gag -- and was glad that marmy currently doesn't hang with me.

yesterday morning, the two farters worked in fine-tuned tandem fashion to wake me the hell up.  thinking they were hungry, i rolled toward the kitchen.  marmy joined us.  the three of them normally assume a rotating shark pattern rotation as i fill their food bowls but yesterday, they all went and milled anxiously around the top of the wheelchair ramp, occasionally drifting about halfway down, then hustling back.  clearly perturbed by something in the back -- a sudden washer/dryer paranoia, a lion crouching under hank's work bench?

i ain't afeared of no machinery and the lion reference was pure hyperbole, so i headed back there, noting that the three cats were making the sign of the cross and remaining kitchen-bound.

two giant freaking pit bulls sitting on our screened-in back porch.  you know, the screened-in back porch that used to have a DOOR leading to the backyard?  both had their noses pressed against the glass of the back door to the house, not realizing, I guess, that they could probably break that one down, too.

so, both belong to our mower-obsessed neighbor, richard.  he keeps four pit bulls in separate runs in his pristine backyard, carefully maintained (dogs, runs, and yard).  very detail oriented, it would kill richard to know he had two escapees.  he and his family don't socialize with the dogs -- no play,  no walks, they are there for protection of property purposes alone.  this has bothered us enormously -- but he has provided them with pals, obedience training {rolling of the eyes}, and high end shelter.

well, he has one escapee who is just so darned charismatic and cute that he talked his compatriot into the adventure.  we call this young mr. smooth "scooby-doo" because he does a great impression.  when he barks at us, we feel like we're in a comic strip, and he nearly wags himself to death.  his older friend, however, appears to be feeling poorly, and hank (my eyes) tells me he has flies congregating on a spot on his back -- not a good sign.  he's also itchy -- scratching a lot, and looking punk and miserable.

the two centers of the feline universe are their habitual feeding location (kitchen) and the litter box alley (in the back, with the washer and dryer and fred's tools, etc. -- you know, the area that oversees the back porch, now pit bull territory.

hence all the farting, funny knock-kneed walking about, dilated pupils, and insistence that i get the hell up and DO SOMETHING.  

fred was not feeling great and after going to bed with the sunrise, got up around 3 pm.  while waiting for his input, i at least managed to move one of the litter boxes out of the direct line of sight of the terrifying behemoths and that solved the immediate problem.  in fact, once "relieved," buddy the outrageously large maine coon, went and pressed his nose to the glass on the back door, going eyeball to eyeball with the two huge dogs.  that's buddy for ya!  however, when scooby-doo greeted him with a resounding "uh-woof?" -- buddy flew to the kitchen to give report to the feline cohort huddled beside the refrigerator.

they are still there.  the dogs, i mean.  (richard and family are apparently out of town for the holiday weekend)  i caved and put some water out but they must be going back and forth as they showed no interest, just acknowledging my intrusion onto their doorless screened-in back porch with some soft "uh-woof?"s.  (punctuation rules requested)

will keep you posted.  fred is still sleeping.  am i being punked.  is this groundhog day, the movie, part 46?

i caught sight of a glint in my beloved's eye last night.  he wants 'em.  

he ain't gonna have 'em.  

1.  they "belong" to richard.

2.  constipation sufficient to raise the terror alert status would rapidly ensue, and i would die, not from crps or a bone infection, but from cat fart poisoning.

hope you are well.  i loves ya!  see ya in heaven if ya make the list!