(no subject)

[mallorys_camera]

Morning started out on a note of High Drama – Meezer the cat was taunting Milo the puppy at a safe distance on the front lawn. Then Milo broke loose from Robin’s hold and lunged. He didn’t exactly snap at the cat, just nipped playfully. But somehow in the process his leash got tangled up tourniquet-style around Meezer’s hind legs and tail. She started yowling. Robin started screaming. Kodiak – whom we might as well adopt because he’s closing in on his third consecutive day of extended sleepover – started laughing hysterically. (It’s really interesting to watch children react to crisis. It enables you to make all sorts of dire predictions about their eventual adult temperments.)

By the time I came running out in my unspeakably filthy flannel pyjamas, Milo was dragging Meezer around the yard like a drunken good ole boy who'd finally gotten his hands on Louis Farrakhan. Neighbors were leaning out their windows, smoking and placing bets. Then Ben came running out to berate Robin: "You are so fucking irresponsible – "

"Can we save the Father Knows Best dialogue for another time?" I said. "The cat’s close to losing a leg. Here kitty, kitty –"

Meezer hissed and clawed. Punctured the radial artery right under my thumb. I started spurting blood. Does Animal Planet have its own CSI team, I wondered. "Uh -- so is she up to date on her rabies shots?"

"Jesus," said Ben. "Take care of that."

I went inside and applied pressure. Then I immersed my arm in a 5% betadyne solution. By the time I got back outside, Ben had managed to lure the kitty out from under the car and cut off the leash. Ben is an animal whisperer. Seriously. He used to work at the Bronx Zoo.

The kitty is presently recovering in our closet. Milo has been driven off to PetSmart to be fitted for a choke collar.

My sole New Years resolution is to find a way to exploit Robin. To that end, I am checking out child modeling agencies. We'll figure on six figures before puberty and his first rehab at 14.

In other news, Tim and Kim did the New Years Day bash this year. They hired caterers – attractive young people in their early twenties with subtle silver rings in their eyebrow piercings and the irridescent beginnings of tattooed monsters disappearing behind the sleeves of their crisp waitron whites. I couldn’t help thinking that the caterers looked more interesting than any of the guests, including me.

I’m still kind of stymied by this transformation: feckless Tim has become a Trestle Glen land baron who worries about cholesterol. I've known Tim since I was 17. He used to play in Sticky Fingers, a rock ‘n’ roll band, with my poor, benighted mother. He used to drive a battered 1969 Volvo. We used to smoke dope together. How did he change? I don’t mean the logistics. That part’s easy. He married Kim and Kim, a lovely, lovely woman, is driven – distant, patrician, disapproving father, bad first marriage, early pregnancy. Tim's always had a talent for hooking up with women who were way more ambitious than he is. No, my question has more to do with buying -- unironically -- into the lifestyle.

Comments

[wailaki.livejournal.com]

Your mother was in a rock band called "Sticky Fingers"? How the hell old was she? Sounds like a woman after my own heart.

[mallorys-camera.livejournal.com]

She was in her late thirties then (an early breeder!) Jeeze, for your sake, I hope she wasn't a woman after your heart -- she was dysfunctional, what you might call a borderline personality. However, a damn good fiddler.