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third generation wild
During shift change at the day job this afternoon, we began to chat about cats. See, my oldest and wisest most ornery is a big old tabby named Bernie. BabyGirl picked that name and who the heck knows why. I've got a sneaky suspicion it had something to do with that movie about the dead guy that got hauled all over the place. Bernie has been slingin' snot and sneezing for months now and breathing real heavy like he's sick. SugarDaddy still hasn't shown up so, umm..you know how it is to choose between vet bills and payin' the rent.

I've been trying to medicate him with people medicine all crushed up in tasty food but he's not buyin' it. Antihistamine in half and half? Humph. Turned his snotty nose up at it. Augmentin mixed in with ground chuck? Not even a bit interested in the raw meat. That's when me and Becky Jean and Mel got to talkin' about how barn cats breed and roam and breed again and never get close to any kind of human. I made the fatal mistake of picking up a prolific breeder in the hospital parking lot some time ago and now we have four offspring going through twenty pounds of cat food a week. Don't have any mice or moles though!

A wise man once told me that I have stories to tell. We all do in some form or fashion. A precious few of them become famous classics, but most are told in the spirit of just tellin' the tale and appreciating the nod when some other soul out there says "Amen, I hear ya." Call me naive, but I think that animals do that too. I see it everytime Faith smiles or Butterbean grins at me.

Which brings me back around to work guy. That story won't be told here because I'm takin' a break from the daily blog. You'll read it though...when you least expect to and the Spirit moves.

Love ya..mean it. ^j^
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