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The old woman next door likes to feed cats. Yes, she is the stereotypical old woman with a multitude of cats, only in this case she is real and lives next door. That's the part I have a problem with. She apparently cares about only one cat out of the whole bunch: Gilbert. I know Gilbert. He is a moron. He is a giant siamese colored persian who's fur has clumped into one giant dreadlock on his back. He is a cat version of the kid who crapped his pants a lot and didn't care, but no one ever wanted to go near him. How do I know that this particular cat is the gem in her donut? Because she likes to stand in her yard, ratty brown terrycloth robe and slippers, shower cap and all, 8 in the morning, and yell his name over and over in this odd high pitched voice that I assume she thinks is her "sweet-talking-to-animals" voice until finally the fat lug comes lumbering up from whatever spot he had found to lay around and look dirty in. This is my alarm clock most days. If the voice doesn't wake you up the horrific vision that she cuts in an otherwise beautiful morning will not only wash the last remnants of sleep from your mind but also give you a grim determination to get up and away from the house as soon as possible before you pull and Oedipus with the hot poker type action.

This morning, upon exiting the house, not long after the literal cat-calling, I noticed that most of the cats had gathered in the front yard. I have no idea what there purpose was, a picnic perhaps, or a group therapy session, a funeral hopefully, but I do know one thing: it was fucking creepy. Walking past a house and having about 40 cats, all sitting in various stations around the yard, stare at you, their heads following you in unison is one of the most scrote-tingling sensations I have ever had to endure. I kept waiting for a flock of crows to swoop down and join them, one of the crows croaking "beware." I like my house. No, I love my house. We have a brilliant garden and pleasantness abounds. I love coming home to it in the afternoon after being at work all day. I feel like a resident of somewhere. I feel like I am coming home. Today I am deathly afraid of going home because something was fishy (no pun intended) about that group of cats. I just know that upon turning the corner onto my street I will see the house on fire, or the old woman crucified in the front yard, her mouth and eyes stuffed with FreshStep cat litter, or something even more terrible that I can't imagine. What is a group of cats called? Lions are a pride, but what about just plain old domestic cats? If there isn't a name yet I propose this one: a terror, as in "oh yeah, I was walking down this alley and there was a whole terror of cats eating out of trashcans." It works, because that is exactly what you feel when you see it: terror. If those neighbor cats so much as look over at our house with their beady little eyes they will meet the business end of my BB gun that is for sure. I don't want to hurt animals, but with these guys it is obviously kill or be killed. If I could fight them with hugs I would. Instead I must fight fire with copper shot.

And I don't hate cats or anything. We have one and he is a good guy. I like cats a lot most of the time. The ones next door are just something else entirely. It's like pet cemetary over there....only without the grampa under the bed thing...probably.

My boss is talking on her phone to someone about worms. Since we work with computers I am thinking worm viruses. Then she says something about blood and stool. So....that means its time for me to run screaming to lunch where I won't be able to eat anything anyway. This day is just one long Boris Karloff nightmare so far.


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