Have you notice what is old is new again? People are searching for green answers to energy consumption. Folks are rediscovering solar, passive solar, and wood and wind energy. I find it utterly unbelievable that people who rolled their eyes at the way Grandma did things find themselves on a road of rediscovery.

Take wood for example. Ben and I grew up burning wood. One because it’s a great heat and two it saves money. It’s doubtful our old farmhouse would have ever been remotely warm if we would have heated with propane. Some scoffed and looked down their noses, but at sports practice it was the farm kids hard from throwing grain sacks, hay and wood around that didn’t take much conditioning.

There are draw backs to burning wood. My dad, the cowboy, thought he would kill two birds with one stone to hook up his new, very green team of work horses to the wagon and cut some wood. The horses would get their training and we would get our wood. It was an enjoyable idea at first, with the crisp air and the snow on the ground and all. Like a Norman Rockwell painting I suppose. We arrived at the dead tree place and after a few snow balls and our pecking order established again, my brothers decided they would stand on the ground and throw wood to me and I would place it in the high-walled wagon. Perfect. Perfect until Dad cussed, spit, and cranked up the old McCullough chainsaw… the “broke to death” horses spooked, took off running–lines dragging (in other words no brakes) leaving me to get a plan and fast. My plan came a little too late when the horses chose to cut through a couple of trees (not big enough for the wagon to pass through).  After going over some roots sticking up and hitting the trees, our wood cutting adventure was cut short. The flip in the air was fun, but the fun ended with my head slamming into the wagon and sliding down the wood walls in a dull heap at the bottom like some kind of silly cold cartoon. The last thing I heard was “Whoa, you sons-a-somethings!”, the crack of the tongue breaking and horses heading to the house at a high rate of speed. Nothing like a long walk back to the barn (picking up pieces of harness) to think about what we might do different next time.

Hey, I have an idea, maybe we shouldn’t cut wood anymore…

I vowed then I wouldn’t burn wood ever again. That  idea lasted all the way to Washington DC (where I met Ben) and back to the Midwest where we would set up our first home. Come to find out, winters are long and cold in Kansas, and if you live in an aging sometimes drafty house on a single income propane can be pricey. “Maybe burning wood wouldn’t be so bad,” I thought while I turned the thermostat down to 55 for the night. Now, a few years later and some killer biceps I say… wood is good. I can split and stack with the best of them, so can the kids.

Is the turn in the economy causing you to look for alternative energy?

Simply,

Sis

Pitiful, ain’t it? It made me laugh outloud. It’s of W and Barney after an afternoon in our mud hole out back. (Swimming pool is what they called it.) When Ben saw it he said started filling in the thought bubbles. I tag-teamed…and it went something like this…

Skeeter (in the welding hat aka Barney): “Yeah, I can fix yer truck fer ya. Pull it round back there, I’ll have a look-see! That’s my brother, Ed. Good ole boy–strong as an ox. He can jest pick yer ole truck up and set it down on them blocks over there ch-yonder… You want a grape Nehi? I have one them yernins fer one…I’ll go fetch us a couple…”

*sphnicker sphnicker*

Here in Mayberry we don’t have much to do, but make fun of our offspring. Once it thaws we can head back down to the creek and git back to frog giggin’. Till then we”ll just pick banjos, pick our teeth and pick on the kids.

I really need to get out more. What are you doing till the ground thaws out enough to garden?

Simply,

Sis

W found the knife guy right away. After he spent a good 20 minutes smelling around looking for a boot knife, he finally decided he needed a diving knife. Keep in mind their are no oceans here in the middle of Kansas and darn few lakes that would be clear enough to make diving enjoyable. However, by-golly we’ve got boots. Bunches and bunches of boots. All that aside, he needed a diver’s knife. (Ben told me boys could never had too many knives or guns. Shocking thing is, I believe him.) Anyway. W wanted something he could strap on since they were lacking boot knives.

The last thing I told them before walking in was don’t forget to dicker. Deputy Barney all but ignored me and W just nodded. So I’m acting uninterested. At least as uninterested as I can with a camera in my hand. Reality is I had to be there to say it was okay to sell a ten year old a concealable diving knife, when W said this…

“Eighteen dollars! Is that yer friendliest price?

“I’d go fifteen for you.”

W nodded and immediately said, “Thirteen?”

The knife dude looked at me, shocked. I suddenly was in a conversation with myself about gum or something, digging wildly in my purse.

He smiled after a good long  as he felt his profits going out the window and said, “I guess…for you *sigh* I’d take thirteen.”

W handed him twenty. I about died. There’s nothing better than coming home with a little cash still in your pocket. I hate to brag, but dang I’m proud.

Poor Barney on the other hand didn’t have as good of luck.

He wanted a croking frog and before he even got to the dickering part, the old man in the top hat said, “Buddy, those are my wife’s frogs. If I don’t come home with exactly enough frogs and money she gets maa-add.”

So Barney just paid him and the man said, “Go ahead and pick out the one you want. Try them all out.”

Barney already had and said, “No, I’d hate to make your wife mad. She sounds mean.”

Frogman almost peed himself laughing. You  would think with that kind of comedic timing he would have given a discount, but what do I know?

Simply,

Sis

But, as I tell the kids, some days you just have to man up. So after taking a bit of my own medicine. I manned up and got my passport picture taken. The gentleman that took it was just that, a gentle man. The picture his fancy camera took was over exposed and nasty. Probably again no fault of his own, with flash and automatic settings and all. I’ve taken more than my fair share of bad pictures, too.

I’m sure the fact that I was almost out of nose powder and  was sweating profusely at the thought of having to get my picture taken had nothing to do with the poor quality picture. Or that it was overcast and misty that day, making my hair frizz. That had nothing to do with it either. Or the fact that I haven’t been running lately because of the weatherI’m lazy and storing fat up for hibernation surely isn’t his fault. Besides that the camera can add at least 20 pounds, right? That surely won’t affect the picture right? But the straw that broke the camera’s camel’s  back was my ding dang dong flat iron chose that day to quit working. Why God why? I’m mean really!

So, I got out Reggie and got in a little target practice at my flat iron’s expense. Then, after all that, out of pure spite, I went and got my picture taken.

 If you were expecting another money saving post this isn’t it. I spent more on ammo making sure my flat iron was dead, than a new one costs. But all that aside, one shot one kill. I feel better. Thanks for asking.

So here’s the picture that is somewhere between hell and hell near as I can tell. He took it right when I was trying to decide if I should smile or give them my mean hunter’s face. Unfortunately, my nostrils were somewhat flared and I had a deer in the headlight look. I’m sure the FBI will take one look at it and say…’nope, definitely not, she’s not getting a license, she’s a pure-d-criminal. ‘ That, coupled with the data on the day I bailed my friend Russell out of jail, there will be no hope of gaining one.

Thank God there is ways to fix pictures now days. My question is…which should I submit?

Sis the cage fighter…

“I coulda fought better, Howard…”

Sis the pirate…

“Arrrr you going to give me a license?”

Sis the flower child.

“Share the love and communism and not concealed carry licenses.”

My evil twin, she devil, SINthia…

Meow!

Okay, I’ve lost every shred of dignity I had and proved I have no future career in Photo Shop editing. To put the final nail in my coffin, please vote on which one I should submit with my paperwork.

Thank you for playing.

Sis

It’s a rainy and cold fall day outside. I love it. Rain makes me happy. Inside this old farm house it’s warm, there’s coffee in my tin cup and the wood stove is stoked. Days like this make me feel froggy. Ribb-it Pabb-it! As I sit and watch the rain fall my mind drifts to the huge gun show we went to this weekend.

I love gun shows. (You know I’m a sniper, right? And even taught Bo to shoot.) Ben loves gun shows too and the kids are starting to think gun shows are the coolest. Ben had a few ideas of what he needed. I was looking for a small pistol with a lot of punch to carry after I get my concealed carry license. (If they’ll even give me one after my episode bailing Russell out of jail.) W was looking for some throwing knives. And Barney, well, you just have to know Barney, he wasn’t looking for anything. He likes to save his ‘spend’ money for a rain-er day. His forte at gun shows is visiting with folks and schmoozing them out of some free candy. Different strokes for different folks. Right?

Anyway.

 I found a sweet little shooter for a nice price and decided I probably couldn’t leave the show without it and a concealed carry holster. There are all sorts of holsters you can carry: right hand, left hand, cross draw, inside the pant outside the pant, ankle, shoulder…Well, you get the picture. If you have a body part big enough, you can strap a gun to it.

Since I’m such a petite little thing. *cough cough*  I thought I would try on an inside the pant holster. So I went to a booth with acres of holsters and fake guns to fill them and commenced to looking. It was then I had a realization. The same realization I have every time I try on a swimming suit or underclothes. Did the people the people before me wear underwear? Was is a thong? If so. How many days have they had them on? I started to panic, as I am somewhat of a germaphobe.

While I was panicking…Barney was sticking holsters in every crevice and pocket to practice his quick draw. With a “Hey Mom, watch this…Hands on da hind…Draw, Hippee!…Bap-bap-bap!…Stop or I’ll shoot…Freeze dirt bag!!!”

He watches too much Cops, I thought as I started to get dizzy. Feeling a little sick, I started digging through my purse for some hand sanitizer. That’s when another dilemma presented itself. When I finally find the hand sanitizer, is it appropriate to douse the holsters with it before trying them on? I missed that tidbit in the gun show etiquette class Ben presented us with before going in.

“Can I show you something, Ma’am?”

Oh good Lawd, here we go… 

“Uh, yeah. I’m looking for a inside the pant holster with a strong clip.”

“It doesn’t get much stronger than this one. ” He said holding out a holster as he grabbed somewhere below his belt. “It will hold it right in there for you…”

I threw up a little in my mouth.

“Uh, okay. *Glup* Can I try it on?”

That’s when he paused, looked me up and down, at Barney the Deputy, around like we were making a illegal deal and said with a shrug and a whisper…”Uh, yeah…I’ll let ya.”

I was insulted. I wanted to shout, “I’M CLEAN! I WEAR UN-DER-WEAR! FRESH ONES–EVERDAY!”

Instead. I picked up the holster and fake pistol stuffed it into my pants before he changed his mind and commenced to doing squats right there in the middle of the aisle.

Barney was gut laughing joining in squats beside me saying, “This is fun!”

Is that what you call it? Fun? It reminded me of being in a Victoria Secrets dressing room trying on underclothes while the neon sign flashes *STRIP*, the stripper music plays and the lady outside says…’remember to keep yer panties on…’ Worst day ever was more like it. Fun is not the word I would use to describe sticking something foreign in your pants, contorting yourself into erotic positions in front of thousands of people while your six year old gut laughs and shoots bad guys.

To make matters worse, my self respect, self image and any hopes of dickering well lay scattered around me like the bleeding hoodlums Barney had just shot in his imagination. Today there would be no haggling about money. No dickering. No ‘is that yer friendliest price?’ I had been robbed of my dignity while trying to protect myself.

I paid the asking price and was walking back over to Ben while trying to figure out how long it takes before you know you have some sort of venereal-holster disease.

“Did you get it?’

“Yep.”

“Cool, can I see it? Sexy! You gonna wear it to bed?”

Normally that would be funny, but I threw up in my mouth. Again!

The next day Ben’s friend came over.

“Can I shoot yer new gun Sis? I brought some ammo!”

“Sure, Chucky, go right ahead.”

“Is it okay if I try it on?”

What was I supposed to say? Remember to keep your panties on? I was feeling dirty, like I was some kind of a pistol pimp. I would have to change his name from Dr. Reginald to just plain old Reggie.

“That would be fine, if you would just shoot me first.” I said, looking around for a sword to fall on.

Simply,

Sis

SINthia

PS ~ Shoot low, Sheriff, they’re riding shetlands. Yeah Baby! The evil twin is back. (If you haven’t had a taste of my bi-polarness, you can check it out here.) Sis is such a pistol packing panty-waist. That’s why I try to drag her to all the gun shows I can. Lord knows she doesn’t go to Victoria Secrets anymore. The next gun show I drag her to will be like this one…

You were great at helping name Bo’s gun. So humor me by giving these photos of carrots a caption, while I finish freezing these over achieving tubers and take advantage of this nice fall weather.

I’ll go first…

Sis~ Three toed Pete. (The poker game.)

Ben ~ It’s like the book… Trails in the Sand by Peter Dragon

Sis ~ Answering the age old question: Where does carrot juice come from?

Sis ~ The Molanator.

Sis ~ Elephant Man.

I know you’ll do better. Thanks for wasting some of your weekend with us!

Simply,

Sis

…take pictures of naked maters and streaking taters.

Did you know it’s hard to take a good picture of a steaking poatato?

Talk about the top of the list of things I never thought I would say.

It’s not my fault. My boys took away all my sense and left me with the idea that taking pictures of a potato with a bad case of ”crumb butt” (as the kids say) is a good idea. And I believed them.

Welcome to my world.

Sis

This year a cousin (who we call Aunt Twila) was there to haul mom back home. Thank God, cause the last time we had to do this I left it up to my SINthia‘s brother (who we call Uncle Knothead) that may have been my first mistake. His idea of getting Mom home and mine a two different things. The story went something like this…

*Sis on the phone with Uncle Knothead*

“Hey, you’re gonna pick Mom up today, right?”

“Ten-four!” (He’s a trucker. Can you tell?)

“Cool. Okay, she’s getting turned loose about one, so if you can’t make it…”

“I’VE GOT IT COVERED, SIS!”

“Alrighty then. Tell her to call me when she gets to the hospital.”

“Ten-four!”

“Yeah, over and out then. C-mon.”

I get a phone call a few hours later from Mom.

“Sis, this is your mother…” (Like I don’t know the sound of her voice.) “Uncle Knothead called and said Dano is going to be in Lincoln anyway to pick up his mother from the airport and instead of Knothead making an extra trip, he set it up so I could ride with them.”

Needless to say I was a little horrified. Dano and his mother are great people, it was just the principle. Again, not my idea of covering it. I glanced at the clock and decided there wasn’t time for me to drive the three hours up there. So I just gritted my teeth and thought Mister Redneck truck driver is going to get an ear full, next time I talk to him. Ten-four?!!

The next phone call I got was well after dark. It was Mom again, giggling this time. She has the most musical laugh you’ve ever heard. I love it. It puts me at ease.

“Sis, this is your mother. I made it.”

“Oh good, Mom, I’m so glad. What’s so funny?”

“Your brother.”

“Oh Gawd, what happen?”

“Well, it’s deer season in Nebraska.”

(I had forgotten. Their season opens before ours does in Kansas.) “That explains a lot.”

“Yes! Well, there we were (Knothead, Dano and me) driving down the road in Knothead’s Suburban.” (It seems they picked him up somewhere along the way.) ” A BIG buck crossed the road in front of us ran out and stopped about 80 yards out in this pasture…”

(Knothead) “He as big as I think he is, Dano?”

(Dano) “Yup!”

(Knothead sliding the Suburban sideways while putting a shell in his gun.) “I think I’ve got to have him.”

*Boom. Whop. Deer drops. Uncle Knothead’s driving, again.* (The whole thing took less than a minute.)

(Mom) “You gonna slit his throat?”

(Knothead) “Nope, it won’t take THAT long to get you delivered.”

(Mom giggling.) “Good thing it was hip surgery and I’m not pregnant and in labor. You remind me of your father.”

(Knothead) “Oh, Mom, yer doing alright…aren’t ya?”

After arriving at our home town hospital and mom was safely in the wheel chair (but still outside…)

Knothead said, “You’re good then, Mother? I need to go pick up that buck….”

Rednecks! Sometimes it’s safer on the couch…

You know what they say. You can pick your banjo. You can pick your nose. But you can’t pick your family.

This year Aunt Twila has delivered our dear mother home. No deer were killed in the process. But then again, she didn’t have a good story either.

Just wanted you to know, your family isn’t that weird compared to us.

You’re welcome!

Sis

As you know, I have this persona. This thing. This evil in my life. A spawn of hell. My evil twin SINthia. She is everything wrong in my life. She says IT out loud. She is THAT mom, THAT lady, THAT….whatever people in town gossip about. She loves it! She lives without regrets and never gets embarrassed. Oh to live in that kind of freedom. Wouldn’t it be freeing? Too bad the real me can’t live there all the time.

Please tell me by now you’ve met her, laughed at her, found something vaguely familiar, thought about her over a glass of wine and then forgiven me her. If not…you can read about her personal life here. How she masquerades as the red baron here, how she sprung her friend Russell from jail here, how she insists on hillbilly kung fu fighting while shopping here and finally if you want to read her latest escapades on how she aspires to be a recon sniper just…stand by.

We have a badger problem. Not a small one, but a big one. HUGE. In case you don’t know, badger’s dig. That is what they do. The one that has currently dug into our yard like it was Mount Suribachi on the Japanese island of Iwo Jima. We’re talking a fortress people.

We just got done paying some folks big bucks to dig up our yard. If I would have known we could have gotten a digger for free…maybe I would be telling a tale of badger training instead of recon sniper training. But, I’m not.

SINthia has always dreamed being a solider. Ever since she didn’t get into the military because of…something…I don’t know what it was. I think maybe it had to do with those charges of transportation of a loaded firearm down in Oklahoma. Or at least THAT was her story. Anyway, she is a freak about soldiers especially snipers. 

She had a habit of maxing out her allowance and the occasional credit card to keep up with this strange fetish. Since we cut up the credit cards, our life has been better, but we are still left with all this military paraphernalia. Excuse me, government issued gear. (She insists on calling it that.) Regardless, she did put it to good use on her latest recon mission. Here’s what she took: standard issue olive drab jungle boots, battle fatigues (complete with ghille suit, boonie hat and camo face paint.) A heavy barreled Remington 700 bolt-action rifle (caliber .308), 4×12 tactical scope (with night vision), flash light, compass, range finder, night vision binoculars, two-way radio, extra ammo, and oh I almost forgot… extra perfume cause badgers stink and she didn’t want anyone thinking that was HER that smelled like that and some substitutions on the camo face paint. Everyone knows ‘mocha java’ gives your lips more of a pout than ‘tree bark bown’ and ‘loam green’ doesn’t say sexy like ‘lusty sage’ does.

In her Alice pack (that’s back pack for you civilians) she opted for a whole barrage of hormone replacement pills, a large bottle of wine and a piece of jerky in case the mission latest longer than expected, reinforcements didn’t show up, or the chopper didn’t make it to the extraction point on time.

She waited until Ben was tucked safely in bed and was sound asleep and belly crawled out to the most currently used den. When she got there she pulled out a roll of 20 pound test fishing line and built a loop her daddy would have been proud of and buried the loop around the hole. After belly crawling back to her sniper hide, she poured her a canteen cup of wine and sets her fishing pole in an spring loaded hook setter, (or loop as it were) and waits.

Now ya’ll might be wondering what fishing for a badger have to do with sniping one? I’m really not sure, except her brother told her how funny prairie dogs cartwheels are when they are caught just below they’re armpits. And ‘derned if they aren’t hard to reel in…fightin’ better than a dat gum master angler walleye…’ So why not try it with a badger? (Did I mention my bi polar friend is pure D redneck–hillbilly?)

Meanwhile…back at the hide. SINthia is feeling a little a woozy from the wine and decides to take a few hormones. Hey, if they can take care of hot flashes, they can probably take care of numb lips too, she muses and pops a few.

A while later she wakes up dazed and confused to rustles in the darkness.

“This is it,” she thinks and checks her scope that is  focused on the hole.

Nothing.

She checks her fishing pole and notices it hasn’t sprung. Her breathing is getting faster and faster trying to calm herself and then she smells it…a musty-dirt smell, with (sniff) pheromones and a touch of…(sniff)…of (sniff)…she wasn’t sure. Where had she smelled than smell before?

Then she heard it again. This time closer. As she tried to look through her foggy night vision she could barely make out…

“Oh God… not my… I’ve shared my yard with you for the last few months…if you think I’m going to share my wine…you have another thing coming.” Then her kung fu instincts took over and she knew at this close range no sniper rifle would help. The fishing pole was useless. It all came down to hand to hand combat…

Deciding the best defense is a good offense, she grabbed the animal by the back of the neck, hurdled the lonely sniper rifle, and ran straight away toward the yard light planning to pummel it to death as soon as it came into focus. Unfortunately, she forgot about the previous loop she had built and unbenounced to her the fishing pole tripped, sucking the line tight around her army boot, leaving her only 15 yards before she was tripped by the tension.

Landing just short of her goal…and the freedom of light. As she fell she heard a squall that sent chills up her spine and reminded her of when Diamonds, the tom cat breed, bred Nasty Pearl, her calico cat, when she was young. (It’s funny what runs through your mind when your in a pickle…) It was then she remembered where she had smelled that smell before…Folks, it was no badger, it was a skunk. I say was, like it was past tense, but it was very much intense and in the present.

She fumbled for her radio…”Red leader…this is bleeding banchee aborting mission…I repeat…bleeding banchee has flown the coop…extraction needed…do you copy? Over!”

She looked up just in time to see the skunk limp off into the bushes and her bedroom light come on. Ben came running out of the house wearing nothing but briefs and cowboy boots and packing a shotgun. 

“What are you doing? What’s on your face? (gagging) Awwwe, man, what’s that smell? How did you manage to get sprayed *gagging*”

“I think I broke my…wenis…I mean my elbow. Ooooohhh, I think I need to go to the emergency room!”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. I just had a sip of wine while waiting for the badger. Then the skunk came and tried to drink the rest and I grabbed him when we were past the point of  shooting and my fishing pole didn’t work…so I knew we were down to mortal combat.”

“Fishing pole?”

(I was fading in and out of conscientiousness.)

“…it was either him or me, Honey. I wanted to make you proud…Could you help me to the truck?”

*Ben was still gagging while I crawled in the back of the truck smelling like a combination of a french whore house, wino and skunk.*

“Honey, do I have to ride back here? This is embarrassing, please…can I at least change?”

“CHANGE! CHANGE WHAT?”

“These camo pants. Don’t they make me look fat?”

And that’s the story of how SINthia, my evil twin, killed the badger.

We found the badger dead the next day.

We are not sure, but surmise, it must have died laughing.

Sis

SINthia

PS. What did I tell ya. You can’t take me anywhere and I get in trouble even if I’m at home. Four tomato baths later Ben let me sleep on the porch, which was mild compared to his reaction to the doctor bill. Turns out Blue Cross and Blue Shield doesn’t cover hospital contamination clean up. Who knew? I’ll make a note of that…

It all started a normal day, for Kansas: watching wheat grow in 60 mph winds. Normal that is, until our power went out.  Barney and I decided a day shopping for shoes would be better than sitting around the house waiting for the lights to come back on. So we left, driving 30 miles to a town with any size and a Kohl’s store.

I hate shopping for shoes. Hate it. I hate shopping for the most part anyway, unless it involves a thrift shop, pawn shop, auction house or something like that, where you can find some unexpected and insane DEALS. Cause, Friend, let me tell you, I love a good deal.

Almost two hours later, we were back in the car. Under the car next to me and there was a little black and white tiger striped kitten sitting staring back at me. I thought to myself, Self, that little guy looks like my Russell at home and drove off.

Russell is just a plain ole run of the mill farm kitten, out of a sick old stray we picked up roaming the streets in town. He isn’t anything special to look at, but has a cute personality and we loved him. When we got home we found Russell was MIA.

The thought of Russell braving 60 mph head winds plus 70 mph stowed away under the car and now being all alone in the big city made me sad.  The more I thought of that, the sadder I got. I’m not a crier by nature, kittens come and go on the farm and I understand that, survival of the fittest and all. But, that night I told Ben how ‘I taught I taw a puddy tat’ that looked like Russell in the city.

“Oh by now, some old lady has picked him up and he’s drinking warm milk out of a bowl in her kitchen, he’s probably forgotten about us.”

“I would rather put him down myself, that to think of him abandon in that town all alone.” With that, a few tears, and a prayer for an unknown old lady, I drifted off to sleep. I rose in the morning on a mission. To find Russell.

When I got to Kohl’s I discovered one of the employees had taken him home to a cat who demanded he be taken to jail the pound. After a brief exchange she said I could find, Max, there. Russell, his name is Russell.

I walked into the pound and found Russell among the other cats waiting for a home. He was big eyed and happy to see me.

“That’s him. Can I just grab him and go?”

“Nope, we got paperwork to do. Name? Address? Phone?”

“Paperwork? You’re kidding me.”

*deadpan look*

“There’s a twenty dollar charge for picking him up, and eight dollars a day to board him, and…”

“But you didn’t pick him up. That lady dropped him off, in fact, he hasn’t even been here 24 hours, more like three. I’m not paying $28 for that. I don’t have that kind of cash on me.”

‘”You can put it on your credit card.”

“I don’t own a credit card.”

“Or your debit card.”

“I PAY CASH!!!  Twenty-eight dollars, is that the best you can do?”

“Yes, ma’am, $28 is our policy. It’s eight dollars a day until five days, that would be $60 total. Then, we would have to put him down if not claimed. (Sniff)”

“Oh for the love of….save it, would ya? I live 30 miles away from here on a farm. Do you think I hauled him to town on purpose to dump him? I would rather shoot a cat in the back of the head, than to dump one in the city and have to think about him trying to survive all the idiots.”

*Blank Stares*

“..I mean, get a clue, do you think I planned for him to stow away yesterday, only to drag back down here today to pay tweeeenty-eight dollars to pick him up? Do the math lady. I’m trying to be a responsible pet owner, here. Trying not to burden you with a stray and you’re charging me for it. That’s ridiculous, I just won’t pay it. Think of how much my kitty would have cost you if I hadn’t shown up to be responsible.”

And with that I turned to go….

Without saying a word Miss Smuggy pants reached and grabbed a citation, and said with a barely audible voice, “Then I’ll have to write you a citation, for animal abandonment.”

And that my friends, was the straw that broke the camels back. I twisted off.

“And if I don’t pay it?”

“Bench warrant.”

Reeeeeeeeeley! Will you send the kitty cops after me? With their taser guns and choking sticks….And when they find me and pick me up…you reckon they’ll stuff me in one of them cat carriers? Be sure and note on my warrant… I’m not current on my shots, I tend to hawk up a hairball once in a while, I refuse to give myself a bath, and won’t use a litter box. But don’t worry, I already have one of them i-dent-i-fa-ca-tion tattoos…and when Ben finds out what an ass I made out of myself and refuses to come and claim me… you can put me and Russell down together and bury us both in the pet cemetery out back then send Ben my wedding band, Russell’s cat collar, and a bill for $120! That sounds like a great plan.

“Animal abandonment? You’re crazy. (Nothing like the pot calling the kettle black…) What do you think I’m here for? I came here to pick up my poor little kitty that rode under my car for 30 miles, spent the night at some strangers house and got dumped off here for some bureaucratic run around. It’s not like he’s a felon and did a quick B and E (breaking and entering) for three hots and a cot…”

Did I mention, I was mad.

When I’m mad I do math in my head really fast. [Court cost $75 plus $25 fine plus another trip to town with the chance of this happening again...or $28?]

It was then I realized they had me. Yes, my friends, they me by the tail and they knew it. I was screwed. 

The day before I came to town looking for a great deal, and didn’t find one. Today was a new day, over a barrel or not,  if it hare-lipped-the-queen I wasn’t leaving until I got a DEAL.

“Is twenty eight dollars the best you can do?”

“Well that’s our policy.”

“I don’t give a ratts, what your POLICY is. I asked, is that the best you can do?”

“I don’t know, you’ll have to talk to Don.”

“Great, where’s Doooon?”

Don turned around and said, “Oh my God, WHAAAT? WHAT NOW? ”

Don had been standing with his back to me the whole time listening to all this. He already knew, what now. But, I ran through the WHOLE, what now, story just one more time, in case Doooon missed something the first time.

“Yes, twenty-eight dollars is the best I can do.”

“I’m just trying to be a responsible pet owner. That’s not good enough!” With that, I turned to go.

“Okay, twenty dollars.”

Done.

Forty-five minutes and twenty dollars later, I sprang Russell from the brig.

As I was walking out with my felon, little miss Smuggy Pants quipped, “His nose is kinda runny, he needs a shot of antibiotic…”

I gave her my best stink eye and said, “Yeah, he don’t look very good. I’ll shoot him when I get home…”

(I keep antibiotic in the fridge at home, and that’s what I would shoot him with, but she didn’t need to know that.) HA!

Time stopped again. Some more. The PETA loving bunch looked like they had just given a drunk a drink, a junkie a hit, a killer a victim. But they were so glad to see me leave, they just let me go.

Russell is home again, chasing butterflies, lounging in the sun, telling tales of his time in the pen, and showing off his jailhouse tattoos.

I haven’t seen Sis. She was going to run in the school board election, but, given her cat’s record, she decided she wouldn’t stand a chance. Personally, I think she should pursue a life of a bail bondsman. That would be right up her alley. Instead of Dog the Bounty Hunter, she could be Katt…One Tough Pussy! I went down to the jailhouse this afternoon and gave out her number, I’m sure she won’t mind.

See ya!

SINthia