They love each other like typical siblings. One minute they're all cuddly, like this. The next, their initiating body slams and chomping on each others' jugulars. I had a bit of a start the other day. It happened in the laundry room. I say this like it's some far-away wing of my vast mansion. It's a small offshoot from the kitchen. Stooped over the edge of my top loader, I gripped and tugged at wet sheets that were wrung tight and smashed against the sidewalls inside the washer's basin, listening to Jack Johnson in the background, wondering, "Where'd all the good people go?" just like Jack, relishing the mindlessness of my chore. Once the wad was free, I hurled it into the open dryer, slammed the door, set the timer and pushed the button. At first tumble, I heard a loud thud and wondered if the dryer, like all my other appliances, was about to expire. A few more bumps had me worried. You can see where this is going, right? I opened the door and our flew Harley, dazed. Poor baby! I scooped him up, checked him over, heard him purring like a Cummins diesel, decided he was fine and set him free. Crisis averted. I hadn't seen or heard him come into the room, let alone jump in. They can be stealthy that way, like B-2 Spirit bombers with whiskers. Kitties. They keep me on my toes. I thought I was being diligent, checking all cupboards with open doors before closing them, scanning the car after bringing in the groceries to be sure no felines had gone exploring through the interior. Looks like I've got to step it up a notch. The good news is that he's now afraid of the machine and darts away like a goosed Cheetah when it starts.
As we all know, Roses like rain. This one is growing in a pot that I largely ignore, sitting in my driveway. Pretty, huh?
A hui hou. Aloha!
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