Random cat shot

Jack is old, three-legged and going blind with cataracts. When he wants to sleep on my side of the sofa, I sit on the floor and let him sleep.

During Saturday's Knit-together, we wandered into a discussion of the Harry Potter books. The last one ticked me off. I found it so predictable and, after all the hype, something of a let-down. Of course, what book could possibly live up to the hype the media manufactured to whip up sales for the grand finale? But it seemed to me that the risen king theme has been hammered to death. And since Harry stands for JK's son, I KNEW she couldn't really kill him off. So to make up for that, she hit us with a King Lear sort of scene where everyone else gets slaughtered. But then, Linda A. Pointed out to me that the book was not written for a middle-aged English major. It was written for eager, idealistic teens. Linda's exact words were, "She didn't write it for you, Roxie."

Palm slaps forehead. Duh!! Well in that case, it actually was a pretty good book after all. Not up to the hype, but not too shabby. I'm still bitterly jealous of her success, but I don't begrudge it her.

We also talked about why men like to wet on things but never could come to an understanding about the matter. One of our merry group works in a bureaucracy where one of the guys would work late, then wander around and wet on people's keyboards or desks, or chairs, or even on the cardigan draped over the back of the chair. He became known as, "the sweater wetter." And DH used to work with a guy who, during graveyard shift in the casting department, would wet on hot metal castings when they were pulled out of the furnace. (a very bad thing to do by the way!!)

Why do men do that? The only answer I can come up with is, "Because they can."

I can sort of understand wanting to take a whizz in the woods, all wild and free and unfettered as it were, but why intentionally soil and spoil? Those colors are not on my mental palate and I just can't paint that picture. Any input?

So while I was at the jail today, administering tests to fifteen felons, the lights kept going out. I assure you, the inside of a cow is brighter than the inside of an unlighted jail. And the thing I noticed is that all sixteen of us were frightened when the lights went out. After five seconds, the back-up generators came on line, but for those five seconds, no one moved or spoke or even breathed. And we were all anxious around the eyes when the blessed, blessed light came back. I'm so glad not to be working with the violent criminals.