Blog #387                                August 8, 2024

 

Well, NASA has not changed the names of the planets as I warned a few weeks ago.   Not yet, anyway, but they have changed the name of the Eskimo Nebula.  A nebula, as you all know, is a cloud of gas and dust in Outer Space.  In any event, no more Eskimo Nebula.  That was somehow deemed offensive, so now it’s called NGC 2392.  Catchy, don’t you think?  I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want an object in space named after your people.  My people have one.  It’s called Jew-piter, which is a huge ball of gas.  I think they named it after my Uncle Harry.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are all feeling well and staying safe and being kind to each other and to animals.  I have a lot of animal stuff to talk about today.  First, we went to Lone Elk Park.  Lone Elk is one of those drive-through nature preserves where, from the comfort of your car, you can view bison, the occasional elk and packs of raccoons begging for food scraps.  Now, my wife is a very smart woman.  She’s math smart and book smart and street smart and people smart, but when it comes to animals, she’s a couple of lionesses short of a pride.  She asked me if there was a chance the bison would eat us.  And she doesn’t like raccoons.  I can understand that.  Bison and elk are regal and impressive and non-threatening.  Raccoons are evil little thieves who would sell their mothers for a French fry.  But they are truly adorable.

 

But that’s the way of the world, isn’t it?  You can tip over trash cans, nest in people’s attics and carry rabies, but if you’re a cute raccoon, people will still throw you food.  Or you can lie to the entire country, cheat on your wife, seduce young girls in the White House and get disbarred, and still be revered and remembered as a wonderful man.

 

Aren’t you glad you have memories?  If you didn’t have memories:

 

          You wouldn’t know where your toothbrush was

          You wouldn’t know who wrote this blog

          Or what a “blog” is

          Or what “is” is

          Or who Bill Clinton (who didn’t know what “is” is) was

 

I have noticed lately that, when having lunch with a friend, I seem to repeat stories I have told them before.  I really don’t think it’s a problem.

 

Should I tell him the story or not?

I’ve told it before quite a lot

Doesn’t much matter when,

I’ll just tell him again

Cause by now, I am sure he forgot.

 

Besides, there isn’t that much to say over the course of 90 minutes that is new.  Here’s something new.  Traffic Report:  A slowdown east of Imperial, Missouri was caused by cattle on the highway.  Well, that’s something you don’t hear about every day, but it is an actual news report.  I wonder what kind of cars the cattle were driving.  Probably a Cattle-Ac.  Or maybe a B-M-Double-Moo or a Toyudder or a Cowdi.

 

I’m writing you now from North Carolina.  Talk about animals!  My daughter has three Australian Shepherds, two cats and twelve chickens.  It’s like Noah’s Ark with air-conditioning.  As I’m writing, there’s a big black cat watching me.  That makes me miss my Shakespeare even more.  Shakey is at home in St. Louis, guarding the house and waiting for me to come home.

 

Cats are so smart.  Last week, it was time to take Shakey to Dr. Cat to get his nails clipped – at a discount of course because he’s missing a leg.  I hadn’t even taken the cat-carrier out of the closet, but somehow he knew.  He was fine all morning, ate his breakfast, friendly, everything – until I went to pick him up.  I pick him up a thousand times.  He likes it.  This time he ran faster than a Jew at a Hamas rally and hid under a bed.  No dulcet pleadings could get him out, but eventually, with a broom and Carol’s help, we made it.  As soon as he gets into the carrier, he’s calm and behaves fine at the vet.  Who knows.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Ignorance is the curse of God (Henry VI Pt 2.) I know everything.  I can always read Pops’ mind.  It’s mostly empty anyway, but I can tell when he’s planning to shove me into a little tote bag and carry me out into the frightening world.  He got me this time, but next time I bet he won’t.  Purr.

 

Weekly Word:  Dulcet means pleasant to hear, like the sweet voice my wife uses when she tells me I am a bi-polar, dysfunctional moron who doesn’t know his foot from a pastrami sandwich.  I never liked pastrami.  Too peppery.

 

I had dinner last Sunday at Abby’s house.  Abby is my youngest daughter.  She lives seven minutes from our house (four if Carol’s driving) and invites us over every Sunday for dinner.  What a joy!  It’s always great food and fun with the kids.  Last week, after dinner, a neighbor came over to tell us there was a big, injured snake in the road, so the kids and I went to check it out.  I guess you could say that an injured snake has reptile dysfunction.  It was a slender, black, reticulated snake about two and a half feet long.  I looked it up when I got home.  It’s a Black Rat Snake; eats birds’ eggs, frogs, rodents; is preyed upon by hawks and other snakes and raccoons.  The poor thing was bleeding but still alive.  Most likely, it had been run over by a car.  The kids and the neighbors wanted to leave it alone, but I didn’t want it to die there in the street.  It was moving very slowly so I just picked it up (one hand on the throat and one on the body) and laid it in the grass while all the spectators cringed.  I checked an hour later and the snake was gone.  Maybe it recovered or slithered away to die or maybe it was eaten by a hawk.  But at least it didn’t die in the street.  Don’t let me die in the street.

 

And don’t miss next week’s blog.  It might be a good one.  Stay well and count those blessings.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com