Rainy days and cat killers always get me down

I topped off a grueling day at work as I always do, by heading a few streets over to the yard near the warehouse building where my family of feral cats live. There were only a handful there, instead of the usual 15, with three wire cages holding styrofoam cups of dry cat food, chained along the fence. I continued along my merry way, feeding the remaining cats and manually setting off the traps so curious animals wouldn't be tempted, then gave my old boss a call to get the scoop.

"The game warden was here today," he told me, "and said he would arrest anyone caught feeding the cats."

"What is this? Carry-a-badge-and-make-up-your-own-rules day if you hate cats? Arrest someone for being compassionate? That's ridiculous," I said.

"He said he'd put cameras out if he had to, and he does have the authority - and a gun."

I continued my rant, "Well, I'd like to see him arrest me, even shoot me for resisting arrest, because I will go to every newspaper, tv station and animal rights group in the state. I'll be sneakier, if I have to, but Mr. Almighty Game Warden should really be doing something more productive with his time. Cold-hearted redneck."

I'm so endearing when I'm pissed off. Or headed off to jail. Either way.

Basic Training, 1987: the drill sargents were always yelling at me for eating too slowly, "Two hands, private! What do you think this is - finishing school?!" I stubbornly refused, of course, because training to kill people shouldn't mean a complete lack of manners. For three days, they'd throw me out of the mess hall during every meal, but obstinence prevailed and eventually I was left alone to chew and swallow my food.

I'll be in Hilton Head, South Carolina this week (should I tell Ed I'll be in his neck of the woods, just to make him sweat?) for a conference, anyway, but I'll be stashing bags of cat food in every nook and cranny on Ft. Rucker...hopefully we'll win the battle of the cats, but a hunger strike may be on the horizon. Summer diet '07.