“I have one of those dry erase boards. Should we put it on our door like the neighbor has?”
“Are we going to write messages to each other?”
“I don’t know. I guess not. That girl just writes messages to herself, apparently.”
“Yeah. Today it says, in the same handwriting as ‘note board’, ‘rain, rain, go away’.”
“Lame. Something tells me hers is the car packed out there with that Hello Kitty shit all over it.”
Possibly the coolest things about being home are the tree frogs. Some months ago, a dozen babies suddenly clung to the siding, happy with my dad’s multiple hanging plants and the green tube lights he’d strung around the porch. They sit, warm, on the lights and wait for the insects to be drawn to them – an ideal situation and adorable to watch.
Brad took the dice from the patio table and put them into the hand of a sitting angel that had its legs hanging over the deck’s railing, one hand extended palm-up toward whoever sat in the chair beside it. I mused at this religious figure that seemingly urged someone to pick up the game pieces: Sometimes it turns out okay and sometimes you won’t be so lucky. That’s all it really is.
Today I saw something that made me want to cry. More so, about 2 dozen somethings.
It was one thing when warm days were here and I was greeted at a friend’s house by precious, outdoor kittens – every one of them black. They seemed happy, exploring the property and greeting me on my way up the stairs. I thought it unusual that the young ones were so many different sizes until it was explained to me that there was more than one litter jumping around.
But today, there were two more litters – tiny furballs and just-born little ones. It startled me, seeing them shiver in the cool weather without vaccinations to prevent their respiratory infections. I kept wondering how such sickly ones made it from the top of their box to the ground. A few had so much mucus over their eyes that they were swollen shut, unlikely to go without suffering. One adult cat had exposed wounds on the back of its neck that screamed “emergency veterinarian trip” to me.
“You should sell these guys!” I said, thinking that perhaps a “free kittens” sign might save a few lives on the front porch.
My friend said, “We would, but so few of them survive that we wouldn’t have any mousers.”
My heart sank. Since when was uncontrolled breeding considered legitimate pest control?
“I feel so bad,” I said, cradling the worst one in my arms. It was bony and not responding much at all.
There was nothing I could do but go home and hug my indoor cat tightly.