“Cats, cookies and coffee”

ROOFTOP -- A nicer day we’d be hard pressed to find. Even the birds are excited about it. Excited about something. Listen to those bubbas. They’re going nuts.

I can’t really tell by their chirps if this melting pot of birdom is happy or upset. Crows I can tell. When crows aren’t saying anything, they’re happy. They only caw when they’re ticked about something. I read that somewhere. Or made it up. I can’t remember.

Of course the birds at the feeder may be upset at one of the neighbor’s couple dozen cats. Outdoor cats have no idea where they live. Most of us realize that home is where we do most of our eating. Outdoor cats? Home is where they happen to be at any given moment. You’d think I had a sign nailed to a tree, “Please, come stalk the birds, kill the lizards and defecate somewhere in the perimeter.”

By the way, I’m just talking about the cats around my house. Your cats are tops. Loveable, well mannered, giving and thoughtful. The ones around here? They don’t care. I don’t even think their mother loves ‘em. – “Hey, get out of here, the bunch of you! Go next door and irritate that idiot on the roof.”

Speaking of Dennis, he and Dardon Ann visited yesterday. I transitioned from cats to Dennis because of what we talked about when he got here. The girls were upstairs doing… I don’t know. Giggling and talking about us. Whatever they do. Dennis and I sat at the dining room table and drank coffee and ate cookies. Sam’s has this weird coconut pecan cookie that’s so good you’ll wanna slap your mom.

I don’t really know how slapping your mom relates to something tasting good, but I did hear it once. “Make you want to slap your Mom.” Wait a minute. Now I remember. “He was so ugly it made you want to slap his mom.” That’s what it was. It has nothing to do with cookies. So, go back to being nice to your moms.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, cats, cookies and coffee. By the way, Dennis drinks decaf. Absolutely ridiculous. It’s like someone who really loves Hershey Bars trying to duplicate the flavor by sucking on a galvanized nail. Anyway, I made Dennis a separate pot of decaf just because I’m one super host.

At some point during our coffee, cookie laced conversation, Dennis mentioned Neapolitan Squares. You know, from the bakery? Layers of light wafer and whip cream toped by a cherry? – What? Well no. They’re in no way related to the cat story, so let’s put Neapolitan Squares out of our minds and get back to cats. Sheesh, Li’l Mr. Bossybritches.

Unfortunately, before we return to cats, we’ve got to take a detour to coyotes. You see, Dennis said that last week he was gazing across the field next to his house in Pasadena and he saw a coyote looking at him. I asked him if perhaps what he was seeing was actually a chupacabra. Dennis thought for a moment and then told me he was pretty sure it was a chupacabra. Right there in Pasadena. Just odd as it could be.

I then asked Dennis what chupacabras eat. He said, “I don’t know, but I hope it’s cats.” Turns out Dennis, too, has a cat problem. No pets of his own, but plenty of cats. Can’t stir ‘em with a stick… like anybody could stir a cat with a stick. The only time a cat will stir is when you don’t want it to.

After saying all that, let me clarify that I’m not the one who wished a chupacabra on cats. I think the notion is absolutely deplorable. It was Dennis. He’s my brother. Lives in Pasadena. Direct all hate mail to him. Call him for all I care.

By the way, I doubt you caught it, but I lied back there. It just hit me. I said that Dennis has no pets. Truth is he has a rooster. He didn’t ask for a rooster, it just showed up after a storm? Ike? Is that too old for a rooster? Regardless, I’m assuming the creature blew in from Apalachicola.

Anyway, the rooster ended up in Dennis’ backyard and won’t leave. He’s not sticking around for the affection. Dennis doesn’t do affection. He’ll do attention, but he doesn’t do affection. He doesn’t feed the rooster, pet the rooster or in any way encourage the rooster. Dardon Ann may, but not Dennis. Still the rooster stays. Right in the backyard.

The rooster lives in the hot tub. I thought one of you might be interested. Not Bill Bossybritches. I asked Dennis about the hot tub arrangement, and he started going into detail about the position of his hot tub cover. I tuned him out after the third sentence. I seldom give a rooster-house story more than a three-sentence listen. Life’s too short.

Don’t feel bad for Dennis, ‘cause, I assure you, he wouldn’t even care enough to ask where my rooster lived.

Tell you what, forget the rooster and the cats and coyotes. And, what else? Oh, yeah, the Neapolitan Squares. Let’s talk lawn mowing. If you stick around long enough, you’ll get to witness this year’s very fist lawn mow.

See those weeds down there? And, the fallen leaves. I’m sure you know that I don’t rake. Or even floss all that much. But, I do mow. Those leaves and weeds need a mow. And, if you’re still sitting up here tomorrow afternoon, say 3:00, 3:30 you’ll get to watch me mow. Or, at least, attempt to start my lawnmower. That’s closer to the truth. Stay through April and you can watch me try to start my weedeater.

The year’s first small engine start is always a challenge. I could actually use some of you here. So, stay planted. Me? I’m heading groundward. I may show up later tonight with some coffee for you. No decaf, though. And, no Neapolitan Squares. You need to get those out of your mind.

END

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Siegelman's of Chicago