Win in the hek are we gonna git the howse bak to ourselfs? Having the peeps here all the time is gitting on are nervs.
Good question, dood. It’s annoying as all get out, isn’t it? And I would know because the Woman has always worked from home and SHE’S ALWAYS HERE.
It sounds like people are starting to get back to work—it seems a mite early to me, but no one asked my opinion—so you should get some quality me-time soon. If not, there’s always the dark corner of the closet, my favorite place to hide and get away from everyone.
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Max, whatchoo think about all the protesting and stuff? Would you do something like that?
I think—and this is not a cop out—that politics is best left to other avenues of discussion, and best left to people since it’s all a people-thing.
But if you know me well enough, you can guess where I stand.
And if I were human, you can guess where I would be.
But we’re cats, and we should worry about cat things. Like, I had this perfectly good plate full of stinky goodness and all I did was wander into the next room to get a quick drink, and when I came back BUDDAH WAS EATING MY FOOD! And he had his own up on the counter! He actually jumped down to eat mine while saving his for later!
Well, I was not having that. But being a much smaller kitty these days and quite old, I stomped into the living room and registered a complaint with management. She got up to see what the problem was, wagged her pointy finger at Buddah (which made him run away because he’s delicate like that) and SHE GAVE ME HIS PLATE!
Did he whine?
No. He knew he was in the wrong.
Besides, my complaining also got her to put some of the snacky dry food out, and he got plenty of that, so he was happy because he actually prefers that.
Like I’ve said before…dry food is for peasants.
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If you’ve followed my blog for a long, long time, you might remember when I told you the story about how a dog named Stoner adopted a puppy named Tank. And then a few years later, I told you about how he helped his own person steal the neighbor’s cat, and the life they had together, how he became her guide dog even though he was not the brightest dog in the world.
Stoner went to the Bridge just a couple years after he adopted Tank at the stabby guy’s office; he stayed long enough to make sure Tank knew all the things he needed to know—be a good boy always, don’t eat the cats, and let the sticky people tell you all their secrets—and left him in charge. Now, stories of Tank have always made me think about Hank, my Golden Retriever that I didn’t have in my life nearly long enough. Both sweet and goofy, a bit lacking in the brains department yet also wise, gentle, and kind.
Because of Tank, I also got to know Weezer, who drops a question every now and then, mostly wanting to know when I’m picking her up for our date, which is scheduled for the second Tuesday of next week. She’s grumpy and loud mouthed and makes me laugh…and she’s adored Tank from the moment they met.
They’ve even seen the world together. The U.S., Africa, England…lots of places I don’t even know about. They’ve been there for each other as they’ve had to say goodbye to all the other cats in the house over the last couple of years, but today Weezer is alone. On Saturday, Tank stretched out on the bed in the big bedroom, went to sleep after a big breakfast, but never woke up.
Weezer was with him when he exhaled for the last time, curled up on the bed, pressed against his tummy, the way they often napped together. Part of me thinks he waited for that moment, so that they had the chance to be together and happy one more time until she meets him at the Bridge later.
He was 12 years old, which is a decently long life for a Golden. He was also loved well and deeply, spoiled as much as a wonderful companion should be, and as you can imagine, his people are as broken as Weezer is.
I’m gonna miss hearing Tank stories.
But doods, he was awesome, and mostly, I’m glad I got to know him.
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Got a question for me? You can leave it in the comments or email me at askmaxmonday -at- gmail dot com.