Tuesday, Jul. 09, 2002
Dear Diary:

My red astilbe is about to flower and this year it is just so insanely beautiful that I find myself drifting out to the garden a couple of times a day in the hopes I'll catch that special moment when it explodes into full bloom.

The anticipation is killing me.

This is so red it almost burns the retina to look at it.  I love it to bits.I would really, really like to be able to take credit for this year's fireworks, to stand there and feed you some line about the finely calculated mix of organic fertilizers, soil pH, and incredible gardening skill that went into this year's show, but sadly I can't.

Astilbe love the wet. We've had rains of biblical proportions this year. You do the math.

I know I'll probably never have an astilbe show quite this good ever again, so I'm savouring every moment of it. Each time I head outside to the garden my cat Zubby follows me.

Now the thing with cats is that they do NOT in any way want to let on that they might actually LIKE you or want to be hanging around you. Cats are all about the 'tude.

So when I head out to the astilbe, Zubby casually meanders a little further up the flower bed from me and looks at anything but me or the astilbe. If you could hear his thoughts, they'd probably run along this line:

I can't see you.  I don't want to see you.  I have my own interests."Lah lah lah lah. I can't see you and I really don't care what you're doing. I just came out here to stare at this really fascinating grass. I just can't get enough of watching this grass growing. Lah lah lah lah."

Fine.

You're not the only one who can play games, cat.

What I like to do is wait until I know he's a bit distracted and walk very quietly around the other side of the perennial border, behind the taller plants.

I can look over and see him, but he can't see me. I have a hard time not laughing out loud when he takes a break from contemplating the mesmerizing grass, throws a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm I'm still moronically staring at the astilbe, and to his horror finds I'M NOT THERE.

All that feigned cat independence disappears. He looks from side to side but he can't see me. He lopes down the length of the bed, speeds around the corner and spots me.

Each time this happens the cat tries to throw on the brakes and pretend he wasn't really running to find me, but we both know he's busted. There is only one thing he can do to save face, to prove his supreme indifference.

He begins to groom. But he doesn't groom just any old part of his body. Oh, no, there's a specific region he chooses to make his point.

He flops quickly on his side and begins to intently lick his nether regions. Yep, when a cat wants to blow you off, it lets you know that even its butt is more interesting than you are.

Fine.

Let other people exult in the transparent love of a dog. It appears that I am cursed with the need to keep a pet that takes the concept of withholding to brave new heights.

Is there a twelve step program for this?

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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