cinderblock

My life thus far has been a never ending battle with my feeble brain. It works in spurts and sputters, trains of thought derailing after about thirty seconds, or dead ending in darkened tunnels. My past week, in which I waged a war of will against a mighty opponent, engaging in an epic struggle between man and beast for ultimate dominance, proves my point. The opponent: my friend’s cat. The damn thing ran out through a broken screen door the first night of house sitting. Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit. But this cat replaced one that was run over. So I had to try to get it in. What ensued over the following week ranged from a few hours of nightly pursuit, attempted lures, leaving food out, not leaving food out, and once the mocking tinkle of its collar bells were no longer heard, two night of driving around the neighborhood and a visit to the pound. All I could think about was how I was going to tell my friend’s little girl after her return from the magical world of Disney, that maybe pet ownership was not for her, as this was her second dead cat in two years. Not an appealing prospect. So after about a day and a half of no signs of life, at 2:30 AM the little shit showed up on the front porch. I opened the door, and he walked right in. Now I make no claims of any kind of psychic ability, but as that cat strode past me he thought: “And what the fuck are you going to do about it?” Images sped through my mind, like: his bloodied limp body hanging in the foyer greeting my friend’s family on their return. Or, tying a cinderblock to his tail and throwing him into the canal. But then I thought about the little girl. Ok cat. You win. Yours is the superior intellect. Thanks a lot brain