Chasing Charlie

While it sounds like one of those stupid romance comedies that crop up every summer like nasty weeds turned resistant to Monsanto’s latest concoction of venom, this blog post title simply refers to recent time filler I have included in my days—not by my own decision—lately. Lately mostly because I am late at shutting the door, or miss his leash by an inch as our dopy eyed friend starts off and out.

Never a sprinter, or at least not yet, Charlie Garbanzo simply trots with the cool assurance of he who knows he can out trot even the most fastidious and fast of trotters. I’m not slow, not one bit. Once I caught a cheetah. But for some reason, Charlie’s trot is too much for me. To throw in another reference to movies of questionable quality, picture the mean bad guy chasing the scared blonde. She sprints up and down stairs, locks doors, enters cars never with the key ready; in fact she never runs with her keys in hand, which is one of the first things you learn in basic self-defense courses. Our butthead bad guy? The asshole can’t even be bothered to walk briskly. He simply walks slowly, with a stupid face of determination greeting the world, and by some metaphysical mystery, manages to stay within the same distance of his target. If the distance changes, it only means he’s closer.

So back to Charlie, and we flip the roles. He’s the menacing bad guy who never changes pace and I’m a dumb blonde running shit for shit, never gaining ground. It just so happens that here that blonde chases the butthead. But of course, every story is ended with the writing of its introduction, which is to say that everything that ever begins ends. And alas, by will of predestination, I do catch Charlie Garbanzo.

But not before he has fun.

What kind of fun?

Well, he’s copulated with both of our neighbor’s female dogs (bitches they call ‘em), and he seems to like to leave his droppings real close to the door step of Joe and Jean, our landlords.

Matt, our neighbor, at night, at our house, talking, over wine, with a plate of cake, product of Kate, there too shared insights concerning animals husbandry practices as practiced on the same farm, of the family by the name of Stuckey.

“Well, when I first get my cats I leave them outside for a week. If they haven’t been eaten by the Puma, then I name them.”

And so with this insight into ways of envisioning the relationships with which one or other willful people have with cats, I conclude this brief manifesto. "Ciao!" says Charlie. "Fuck!" says I, as the cute cretin trots away from me.