So an eight-year-old and a five-year-old walk into a bar…

No, that’s not the setup to a joke, that’s part of my weekend. The kids wanted to go out and ride their bikes on Saturday, so off they went, having been warned repeatedly not to cross or ride down a particularly busy road… which of course they did anyway. They came back much later than anticipated, our oldest having gotten it into his head that a produce stand we frequent was close by (it’s actually about seven miles away), just past said bustling thoroughfare, and thought they’d pay a visit on the folks who run it. Never mind the fact the youngest is still using training wheels and a major bus route lay across their path, there was adventure to be had!

Instead they ended up walking into the Cloud 9, a little dive outside the Air Force base, one wooden building being apparently interchangeable for the next. To the Cloud 9’s credit, they allowed the parched duo to guzzle some ice water and sent them on their way, albeit after asking them “a lot of questions”, according to the eldest, like “are you looking for someone?”, “do you know anybody here?” and the slightly ominous “do you boys have any money?”.

I suppose it at least makes an amusing story, and in their later years of debauchery I’ll be able to just roll my eyes nonchalantly and say “Hell, you boys were coming home late from bars since you were in grade school.”

Yesterday was Lulu’s time to go. She was our oldest cat, pushing 19 years. She’d outlived two other, later arrivals, and we were beginnng to think she’d outlive us all, just out of spite (she was that kind of cat).

Another theory held that she was actually already dead, but still occupying the house as some sort of feline lich-queen from her throne on the TV room couch. This theory held that the motive was the same—spite was her raison d’être—and was somewhat corroborated in her last year by the odor of her breath, which all agreed did not smell like anything that should emanate from the living.

Nontheless, she still appeared to have a relatively good, if sedentary, quality of life until about three weeks ago, when her already low weight plummeted to nothing, and her breathing became labored. She seldom ate, and barely moved at all. Though I dragged my feet on actually putting her down, yesterday it was obvious that she was either approaching or at her nadir. I made her last appointment with the vet, and took her in yesterday (”a final kick in the pants from Lulu”, my wife said, conflating Lulu’s problematic attitude and the $220 bill).

I didn’t think I’d end up getting as emotional as I did, but I’m glad I made the decision to stay with her until the end (I was always her favorite), and I held her as her life ebbed away under the doctor’s needle. She was with us so long, it feels like the end of an era. No more holding court from the couch, no more playing fetch with plastic bottle tops, no more nuzzling my hand. Goodbye, Lulu.

I was minding my own business just now when the house shook. Having only just heard a fairly loud screeching of tires the next street over, my mind immediately jumped to the conclusion that something had exploded nearby, but it turns out it was “only” an earthquake.

I used to rather enjoy earthquakes, until I bought a house. Now I run around frantically checking for cracks in the wall after every little tremble. A mortgage makes a man paranoid, I’m tellin’ ya.

This morning the youngest talked about blasting off in a rocket to space. He asked if space was big. “Very, very big. As big as the whole universe”, I told him. “Would it take forever to see all of space?” he asked. “Yes”, I replied, “it would take pretty much forever to see everything there is in space”.

He furrowed his brow and nodded gravely, as if digesting a concept of great import. He scanned the sky intently, then turned and put his hand on my shoulder, a solemn countenance on his face.

“We’d better bring some snacks“.

Yesterday I began attacking the very last of the wallpaper left behind by the previous owners of our house. As the first piece came down, it revealed a pair of letters painted underneath: AN. The next piece was heavily glued, but a bit of determined scraping expanded the message to ANGELA. This seemed pretty normal as such things go, since it was the name of one of the previous owners.

“At least it doesn’t say ‘Helter Skelter’”, I flippantly remarked to my wife. As the rest of the piece came off the wall, though, it revealed an altogether unexpected message.

I’m praying hoping this is a lighthearted reference to a forgotten session of oral sex, not the heretofore concealed testimony of some cannibalistic murder victim.

We had to put one of our cats down the other day. Two-Face, the crazy one, is no more. She’d developed an infection (the name of which escapes me) that basically causes painful sores on the inside of the mouth. It’s not communicable, and veterinarians have no idea what the transmission vector is, but the only cure for it is to remove all a cat’s teeth. Given the expense and bodily trauma of anesthesia to older cats (to say nothing of new challenges in feeding her), that wasn’t really an option.

We tried a regimen of drugs including a desensitizing wash and anti-inflammatory steroid injections, but nothing really seemed to help. She’d yelp when eating soft food puréed with water, or even for no apparent reason at all. She put a pretty brave face on it, and was otherwise as normal as her mild psychoses would permit, but by Tuesday she was down to less than six and a half pounds and wasn’t even interested in food because it was causing so much pain.

So we made the unhappy decision Tuesday morning and took her on her last trip to the vet. The kids were remarkably sanguine about the whole affair, insulated, perhaps, by a youthful inability to comprehend mortal finality. I still feel crummy, though.

Goodbye, Two-Face.