Okay, my birthday involved driving to Vincennes to retrieve, from my parents, an 8-foot windmill. I am so tickled by the shear ridiculousness of this gift that I about can’t even tell you. If only there were some way to hook it up to generate power or pump up well water! Eight feet! I’m hoping it will at least make the moles uncomfortable.
On our way to dinner we were talking with the Butcher’s dear friends about the mole situation and the wife friend was talking about getting something to poison the grubs and the Butcher explained that he thought the moles were eating the crawfish, at which point the husband friend starts imitating the moles by giving them the most Rhett Butler voice, which he tried to claim was French Louisianan, but please!
Still, I love the idea of some Cajun moles taking up residence in our yard.
However, this is not the story I want to tell you.
The story I want to tell you goes like this. So, we have a neighbor. Not the couple with the adorable baby, but the other neighbor, who kind of looks like a handsome Pat Green. He looks a little bit like our old neighbor, from the old place, who looked a little like if Pat Green and Ron White had a baby. Now, no matter how Republican or ridiculous (or both) our old neighbor was (or is), Mrs. Wigglebottom loves him. Who knows why? She just loved him (Did I ever tell you about my one and only time dropping acid, when our old neighbor used that opportunity to show me the scar from when a bottle rocket almost blew his penis, or in his words, his pecker, off? Kids, it was like a living just say no to drugs campaign right there in my living room. He wasn’t even on drugs. He just is the kind of guy who would show you the scar from where he almost blew his pecker off when you were least prepared for it.)
The new neighbor could not be more removed from the old neighbor in terms of personality, but he is very understanding of the stupidity of our dog, which, in part, manifests in her undying adoration of our new neighbor, for no other reason than he looks like our old neighbor, kind of, since they both kind of look like Pat Green.
So, the dog came with us to Vincennes. She gets out of the car, she goes to pee, she spots our new neighbor, who is sitting on his porch having a smoke and a beer. I start, immediately, “No, no, stay.” But he’s all “Aw, shucks, I don’t care.” and she runs over.
I’m yelling, “No, no, no,” but she can’t hear me because she’s in love.
People, she goes in his house. Yes, inside the house of our neighbor. She refuses to come out, no matter how much I call. She comes out briefly to get up in the chair with our neighbor and make googly eyes at him, her tongue lolling out like she’s in heaven, and then she goes back in his house all like “Tough shit for you, birthday girl loser. I’m at my boyfriend’s house and la la la, I can’t hear you.”
She’s running around. She’s as happy as a clam. But she’s ignoring everyone’s pleas for her to come out.
The Butcher finally has to go in and pick her up and carry her out of the house and back into ours.
I am mortified.
But also, kind of tickled.
Tiny Cat Pants 