Here we are once more, not watching the clock tick down to midnight, knowing it will get there without us.
Mia sitting zazen.
It’s been a good long while since Herself and I stayed awake to greet the new year, and I see no good reason to break that streak this time around.
Impatient celebrants began setting off fireworks 7-ish, which set off the neighborhood dogs; sort of a bonus year-end racket. Miss Mia Sopaipilla remains unruffled, having developed a degree of hearing loss, and never being much frightened of anything anyway, not even the Turk, who could be very scary indeed depending on which one of the voices in his head had the conn at the moment.
Thus we take a page from “Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry,” by Ted Kooser and Jim Harrison:
We should sit like a cat and wait for the door to open.
The door to 2026 will swing wide directly. Until then, sláinte to all you cats who spent 2025 helping me fill up the old literature box, clawing the furniture and keeping your tails well clear of the rocking chair. See you next year.
“Holy hell, hon’, better start filling the sandbags.”
Winter finally came a-calling yesterday.
More of a “ring the doorbell and run” deal, actually. Left 0.06 inch of rain on our doorstep instead of a flaming sack of dog shit.
We’ll take it. Don’t gotta stomp it out or nothin’.
Today dawned clear and cold, and the furnace and humidifier were harmonizing on what sounded like some sort of mariachi tune as I awakened just before 4 to “shake hands with the governor.”
“Are you getting up or going back to bed?” Herself asked as she set about her day.
“Back to bed,” I mumbled, and made it so. The next two hours of sleep were top shelf, curled up like an old dog under blanket and comforter. The news cycle can’t get me in there, with the phone locked and in silent mode. No wonder Miss Mia Sopaipilla loves the bed-cave I make for her every morning after coffee. And she doesn’t even read The New York Times.
The press is deep into “The Year in Review” mode now, which reminds me of the last time I went to a Broncos game at the old Mile High stadium, back in the days when the Donkeys would have had their hands full going up against a Pop Warner squad from Saguache.
Anyway, the Donks were getting their asses handed to them, by whom I can’t recall, and though there was plenty of time remaining on the clock, the stands were emptying faster than bladders overloaded by the industrial lager the fans were slamming to drown their sorrows.
In mid-exodus the PA gives out with a cheery, “And don’t forget to watch ‘Bronco Replay'” on whatever local TV channel was playing the piano in that whorehouse. After which some tosspot a few tiers downhill from us lurches to his unsteady feet, bellows, “Wasn’t it bad enough the first time?” and then tumbles down the stairs.
All these years later three hundred and sixty-five steps seems like quite a tumble, especially since I’m not wearing any protective gear — like, say, sinuses lined with cocaine, a beer-swollen liver, and a couple dozen extra elbees of adipose tissue.
So please excuse me if I skip the replay. It was bad enough the first time.
I can’t say with a straight face that I’ve been a good boy this year.
So it must be that I was riding Herself’s coattails when Santa dropped off a holiday gift last night.
We both — yes, both of us — dreamed of our late cat Turkish.
The Turk at rest.
Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) left us far too early, on March 5, 2020. He and I reconnect now and again in dreams, but never have Herself and I met up with the old soldier at the same time.
In my dream, I was in bed, head propped on the pillows, but the bed was on the front porch of some vaguely familiar house from my past. I was just chillin’ there, watching the world pass by, when the Turk came aboard without so much as a bosun’s whistle and stretched out alongside me, as he did regularly when still he walked the earth.
Surprised to see my old comrade, I turned my head and said to Herself, who was nearby but out of sight, “Hey, check it out!” And then Someone hit the channel changer, the dream shifted gears, and I was lucky to have the warm memory of it when I awakened this morning.
Herself was scurrying around getting ready for work when I shambled into the kitchen and told her I’d dreamed of the big fella.
“I did too!” she said.
In her dream I wasn’t there, but her dad was, or might have been, though I don’t recall Bob Pigeon and the Turk being all that tight. He probably tried to explain how the Turk was going about the whole cat thing all wrong, and that would be as far as their relationship would ever go, because the field marshal was very much not interested in advice from junior officers.
Now, a cynic might write the whole visitation off as the upshot of eating spicy Mexican dishes for about a week straight, plus a few too many sugary seasonal treats.
But I know a gift when I see one. What a joy it was to have an old friend home for the holidays.
You can have my shorts when you pry them from my cold, dead legs.
I’m a late adopter. Hardware, software, pants in autumn.
Herself cracked this morning and pulled on the long johns — plus long sleeves, socks, and a vest — but not me. No, sir.
The uniform of the day until further notice remains Columbia shorts from the previous millennium, a mildly pilled Paddygucci T-shirt, and some battered old Tevas. Shucks, I even went outdoors in that kit to water the shrubs.
Not for long, mind you. But still. It keeps the blood flowing briskly and the neighbors at a comfortable distance.
“Don’t get too close, now. You might catch whatever it is he has.”
“Do you mind? You’re letting the cold air in.”
Miss Mia Sopaipilla, meanwhile, welcomes the advent of cooler weather. That means the Return of the Bedcave, a passive-solar getaway that’s like a day at the beach without the sand in your undercarriage. It’s the cat’s meow, if you will.
A thunderclap yesterday afternoon startled Miss Mia Sopaipilla, who was curled up in her favorite sack, enjoying her eleventy-seventh nap of the day.
I did not tell her, as did Johnny Lundgren’s dad in Jim Harrison’s “Warlock,” “That’s God barking at you for being such a miserable little pissant.”
No, I reassured her that it wasn’t God, probably, or even the work of a (much) lesser (would-be) deity — say, Felonious Punk, commanding a few of his masked ICEholes to shock-and-awe us back to wherever we came from, or didn’t, whatever.
Even if fascism were to come a-calling at El Rancho Pendejo, Miss Mia should have nothing to fear. She’s a Russian blue, and since the Punk just blew a Russian, she should be A-OK with him and his goons. Cream for all my apparatchiks!
Now, me, I’m an Irish-American Red, so who knows where I’d wind up? Where would a Adderall-snorting asshat send a sober Mick scribbler with a bicycle fetish? A Boston pub to pull pints on St. Patrick’s Day? The International Space Station, to chronicle its “retirement,” slated for 2030? Couldn’t log much saddle time up there over the next five years, but I’d get to rip one helluva descent when NASA — if it’s still around — pulls the plug.
And Herself? Conscripted into the Punk’s platoon of librarians, I expect. Condemned to catalog the pestilential archives of fuck books, Truth Social screeds, and unpaid bills.
And she wouldn’t be allowed to shush any of his minions, who never ever give their festering gobs a nanosecond’s respite from telling the FreeDummies that Making America Great Again requires chop-shopping it into a Dollar Store knockoff of Pooty-poot’s Russia.
Troops to Ukraine? Hell no! But troops to DeeCee? That’s the real global trouble spot, amirite?
The best intel I can muster tells me that the enemy is bunkered up at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. NW. Careful with the arty and airstrikes, lads, and try to avoid damage to the facility if it’s feasible — it is a National Heritage Site, but may have been desecrated beyond resurrection.
I mean, have you seen what these terrorists have done to the Rose Garden?
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