Alvesgaspar, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
By Bill Stokes
Kickass, the doorstop dog, reports that the keeper is in serious need of therapy in this winter that refuses to end, and he—the keeper places much of the blame on cats.
In the prolonged winters of his northern childhood, romantically inclined tomcats gathered near the window where the keeper tried to sleep, and these barnyard lovers produced the kind of grotesque moaning, howls and snarling appropriate only to the jungle.
His summoned mother’s comment, “It is just the cats, Billy, go back to sleep,” not only left him totally sleepless, but seriously doubting a mother’s omniscience.
Should anyone have the poor judgement to paw through the ashes of the keeper’s childhood, they would find the still-glowing embers of a lifelong inability to warm up to cats.
So, there it is: in the current mode of pointing fingers and placing blame, this infernal endless winter is the fault of the cats; and there needs to be an investigation–by the dogs, of course.
