The Sully Love is Spreading

Something has changed. I don’t know what it is. I used to read Andrew Sullivan as fuel for my “god, conservatives are so stupid and unreasonable” fire. Hence the “Ugh, Andrew Sullivan” there on the right–a little admission that I read him but am embarrassed to be caught doing it.

But, then Lindsey points out, “Andrew Sullivan was on The Colbert Report tonight and I thought he was utterly charming and cordial and downright jolly about things.” And she’s right. He is utterly charming*. Is this new?

And today, Sully’s** all hopeful about a vibrant American culture. Kids, I can dig that–celebrating a vibrant American culture. He’s talking about a change in our cultural sense of humor: “The writers and actors trusted the audience to be in on the joke, and to realize that the fun they were poking was sharp but not designed to wound.”

First the cat and the dog get along. Now I’m agreeing with Andrew Sullivan. Will wonders never cease?

Anyway, I like the shit out of this idea of “sharp but not designed to wound” and I’m going to mull it over.

*Lindsey, did Fritz ever give you an answer to your question? I’ve been going back and forth between this and this and I just don’t know enough about gay male culture to say yes or no.
**Can I call him Sully? I want to. Can one have pet names for men she’s never met? He can call me something sweet and diminutive if he wants. I won’t mind.

The Raw Food Debate

In yet another installment of “I Read So You Don’t Have To” (also known as “Yes, I’m all out of creative ideas for today”) we turn to the wacky world of folks who feed their pets raw food.

The basic argument is that the ancestors of dogs and cats in the wild eat/ate raw food, so it must be better for household pets to eat raw food.

It’s an interesting article, but there’s one unaddressed flaw in this premise.

My dog eats poop. Every chance she gets–goose poop, deer poop, poop of indeterminate origins, whatever–it all goes in her mouth if she thinks I’m not looking. In other words, when left to her own devices, she’s not just chasing after squirrels, she’s munching on whatever disgusting things she can scavenge.

By the logic of these folks, since my dog would naturally eat poop, I should feed her a diet rich in poop. And yet, I see things like “broccoli, carrots, sweet potatoes, red chard, parsley, garlic, ginger, kelp, alfalfa, zucchini or squash” on these dogs’ menus, but no poop. You’re going to tell me there’s some large band of wild dogs (or wolves) running around harvesting kelp for themselves in the wild? That more dogs would rather eat parsley than poop? I’m just not convinced.

Many of you oppose socialism because it eventually gives people no motivation to work, since there is no reward. But seriously, when you read about folks feeding their pets three to five hundred dollars worth of food a month, don’t you, just for a second, entertain the idea of taking their spare cash away from them?

The Orange Cat

I remember when we got the orange cat, he was so tiny that he could barely walk. If he wanted to get any place quickly, he kind of hopped sideways with his little tail sticking straight out behind him like a constant exclamation point.

It was up to the Butcher to teach the orange cat such important tasks as stair climbing and wrestling. I’m proud to say that he’s an expert at both.

When Mrs. Wigglebottom came to live with us, she had a lot of experience with cats, having lived with Simon, my brother’s cat that my parents got stuck with. Mrs. Wigglebottom loves Simon and she used to chase him around the house and he’d then chase her back.

As long as Mrs. Wigglebottom has been with us, the cats have been, at best, indifferent to her. At worst, they’ve done her like she’s Carrie at the prom. But like the sweet dope that she is, she keeps trying to befriend them.

Well, things had been tense here, since the black and white cat moved in at the very end of the dead end. He’s a bully. In fact, he’s such a bully that the tiny cat won’t go outside any more. But the orange cat has taken to fighting him and, usually, losing.

But the weekend before last? He finally kicked that cat’s butt. This resulted in him sitting around on the garbage cans bragging to everyone who would listen.

And tonight, there was another altercation and I opened the door and asked the orange cat if he wanted to come in. He declined, at first. But after Mrs. Wigglebottom barked at him, he sprinted through my legs.

And then, I swear, he spent a good ten minutes letting Mrs. Wigglebottom sniff him all over and wag her tail at him and he strutted around her and rubbed up against her like “Yeah, I am such a motherfucking bad-ass.”

Now he’s all stretched out in the chair asleep and even though he’s not a big cat by normal standards, he’s taking up that whole chair like he owns it. I swear, he’s practically smirking in his sleep.

If the tiny cat doesn’t knock him down a peg or two soon, living with him is going to be unbearable.