Miss Mia Sopaipilla is content to serve the nation in a less-visible capacity.
The Democrats’ best choices for president? Amy Klobuchar and Elizabeth Warren, says the editorial board of The New York Times.
“Good on ’em,” replies Miss Mia Sopaipilla. “I will nominate myself for this sunny spot by the foot of the bed.”
All systems go.
“There’s another hold from NASA, another delay. Mia sits there, patiently waiting. What can be going through a cat’s mind at this moment?”
“Gordo? Gordo, I have to urinate.”
Exhausted by a long morning spent waiting for breakfast, Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) commandeers a sunny spot for purposes of R&R.
The cats are getting the old one-two this weekend.
Miss Mia Sopaipilla recovers from a nasty bout of Delayed Meal Syndrome atop the bedroom dresser.
First, Herself has flown off to Florida to visit her mom and eldest sis, which means that reveille and mess call have been bumped from 4 a.m. to a more reasonable hour dictated by the whims of the interim quartermaster, a renowned wastrel, sluggard, and layabout.
Second, Daylight Saving Time ends at 2 a.m. tomorrow, which means an additional hour of kip time for staff and more grumbling in the chow line for the cats.
“Unconstitutional! Due process! Coup!” they yowl, baring their fangs, spreading their claws, and hissing like the Devil’s teakettle on full boil.
No, wait, that’s the House Republicans. Another bunch of neutered housecats entirely.
Where’s the Turk? He was here just a minute ago, I’d swear it.
After a brief encounter with actual fall weather we’re back to what passes for normal here in the Duke City — heat and homicide.
Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) returned to his favored observation post upon the battlements, to wit, the ledge of our bedroom window.
His adjutant, Miss Mia Sopaipilla, has been shifting among various cozy spots — atop one of the Twin Towers, across a sun-splashed stretch of carpet next to the living-room coffee table, near the foot of the bed — and sometimes burrows under the covers, where she adopts her alter ego of Lumpy the Bedbug.
There are worse places to be than astride the saddle of a Vespa on a sunny day.
A fella has to be careful where he sits on the bed when Lumpy’s in residence.
I was able to run in shorts and a T-shirt by 9:30 or thereabouts, chatted productively with a local bicycle retailer (road bikes are out, mountain bikes are in), and late in the day decided to take the Vespa for a spin to charge the battery and keep its vital fluids circulating.
The highlight of the day may have been this little news nugget, from my old hometown of Greality, Colorado. As I sez to one of my old UNC bros, I sez, ’tis often that we were crazed on the auld L-S-Dizzy Back in the Day®, but ne’er e’er did we try to bite a constable in the cojones. We were hopin’ for a nip at the coeds so.
Gotham kitty.
Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah, cat, man.
“We just saw an eagle go by. It was carrying a baby.” (h/t E.B. White)
We won’t need any sunscreen today.
No, you haven’t stroked out. All is well. What you’re seeing is the wind-driven rain smearing Miss Mia Sopaipilla’s upper-deck observation window.
Frankly, she finds this irksome. The Enemy is everywhere, and eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, as we discovered last night when a stray cat materialized outside the Southwestern Sally Port.
I was loading the dishwasher when a horrific yowling and clatter nearly gave me a stroke. I thought maybe the Dead had breached the Wall, but nope. It was Mia, scattering the vertical blinds as she marched to and fro alongside the sliding glass doors, challenging a feline interloper to personal combat, while Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) formulated strategy and tactics from his command post in the rear.
This morning I awakened to find that the commander and his staff duty officer had deployed various biological countermeasures overnight (the Geneva Convention notwithstanding), and terrorists had disabled the coffee grinder. But I was able to bring the base back to full readiness with various cleaning products, some elbow grease and much bad language.
Opening a few windows helped, too, until the rain started coming in sideways.
That is all.
“You impeach that guy yet? No? Well, you know where to find me.”
Miss Mia Sopaipilla speaks out boldly when others remain silent.
“Impeach him? Of course you impeach him. And convict him, if you haven’t been ‘fixed’ like the Turk, who by the way doesn’t think you ‘fixed’ anything by having his nuts cut off. They weren’t broken, f’chrissake. Not like the Senate’s, anyway. Talk about your nutless wonders.
“If this clown were a cat, we’d have hissed at him and swatted him and run his fat orange ass all the way back to New York by now.
“We’d have shit in Pelosi’s shoes, too. And barfed hairballs into the kneepads McConnell wears when he’s getting the Kentucky Meat Shower at those Federalist Society clusterfucks.
“And to think you call us pussies.”
It’s good work if you can get it.
Well. Shit. Who wouldn’t?
Patrick O'Grady sells words and pictures to Adventure Cyclist, Bicycle Retailer and Industry News, and pretty much anyone else who can spell his name correctly next to the phrase which sounds so musical to his aged ears: "Pay to the order of. ..." For more on Your Humble Narrator, click the comic.
Patrick O'Grady was bad enough with pen and ink. He got worse
with a keyboard.
Now he has a microphone.
God help us all.
If you need a tub of margarine, a spatula, and the dubious assistance of a giggling friend to squeeze into your old team jersey, it's time to step up to some kit that fits. Click the pic to join the Old Guys Who Get Fat in Winter Racing Team!
Know your rights, and defend them.
Fight hate.
Defending press freedom since 1970
Colorado Central columnist Hal Walter cranks out a book now and then, and they'd look swell in your library (they also read nicely, too). Click the image to order yours.
Drink the Kool-Aid
Words and pictures on the DogPage © 2020 by Patrick O’Grady/Mad Dog Media. All rights and most lefts reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, redistributed, laser-printed, photocopied, crocheted into a sampler, knitted into sweater, tattooed on a floozy, spray-painted on an overpass, tapped out in Morse code, sublimated onto a jersey, shared in whispers in the back row of an adult theater, shouted from the rooftops, scored for tuba and banjo, translated into Squinch, or communicated via telepathy without the permission of and hefty payment to a heavily armed, chemically preserved cyclo-cross addict who knows your IP address. Bonehead shysters and the simpletons who employ them, take note: The opinions expressed on the DogPage contain toxic quantities of hyperbole, satire, parody and humor. Pah-ro-dee. Hyyuuu-mor. Acquire a sense of same or read at your own risk.
