Charlie and Kiki and the Hired Help

It's the first day of the New Year, and that means it's time to do some cleaning.  I roust the cats from their temporary take-over of our bed, and let them know how the day is going to unfold.  They are not pleased. 

 But, when I explained how much fun cleaning could be for everyone, they quickly got into the spirit.

Very quickly.

They were quite helpful.

 After all, they could see as well as I did that we have a significant rodent problem. 






In fact, they found great satisfaction in pointing out areas to be cleaned:

"This rug is a mess!"

 

"This room needs immediate attention!

"I have uncovered numerous health code violations!"

Even the computer gave issued some commands:

"This floor is filthy!  How do expect me to keep my paws clean on THIS?!!"

However, I found the "management" was easily distracted.....

And not as "commanding" as they could be......




"Ummm.....I think I'll just wait here until that vacuum is done upstairs....."

 Having issued the orders, it was lunch time. 

Finally, the "management" just gave up and left the labor alone to finish. 

Ever Yell At A Book?

Granted, it's easier to yell at a book you're listening to versus one you're reading; it's like you think you can reason with the narrator or something. I've yelled at a couple of books in the past year; the latest was The Dogs of Babel: A Novel by Carolyn Parkhurst.

The basic plot of the book is this (with apologies to Ms. Parkhurst): a man comes home to find his wife has died after a fall out of a tree in their backyard. The only "being" to have witnessed the fall is the family dog. The man, a professor of linguistics, decides that, in order to find out what happened (and why), he will teach the dog to talk. He puts the dog in a fair bit of danger in his quest for the truth--and at that particular point in the book, I'll admit that I was yelling and crying.

Because here's the thing: very early on, you know his wife killed herself. The man knows it too. But he keeps trying to communicate with the dog, as if by knowing WHAT happened, he'll know WHY it happened. But it never works that way, and that's why I was frustrated and yelling--the people left behind will never truly know, and certainly never truly understand, why another person would choose to end their life. You could leave the most intricate, detailed letter with all the reasons why, and the people you leave behind would still have those niggling thoughts: "What if I had...?"

Still, I think if any book evokes emotions like that from its reader, it must be worth a look. Bravo, Ms. Parkhurst.