Spitball Army

Bertolucci’s 1900 (1976) has frequently stunning visuals and can be operatic in its staging, but no movie should be this long. My bum hurts. I nearly shrieked in my own living room this morning as I watched Donald Sutherland head-butt a kitty-cat to death. It only took one furiously powerful slam with the crown of […]

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My hands smell of garden onions; the garage smells like paint; dirt is under my fingernails; the cat has been chasing lizards all afternoon.

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I’ve slid syringes into oranges and injected saline into my cat. But when the nurse pulls the needle on me, I quake like an aspen.

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Wrestling with intangible tsuris at my desk: bills, job, future. At my feet, the cat leaps in joy with his tangible plastic straw.

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The neighbor’s cat saunters into my office, onto the desk, and paw-tweets an emoticon: [p\. Just in case his friends are online.

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Approximate playing time: 80 minutes.

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Cat bites my finger as I force-feed her meds. A month later, she dies. Today, I notice the bruise under my nail, moving up and on.

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Asleep, she’s a champion mouser, home protector, rewarded with bottomless saucers of milk. Awake, she stumbles, blind, into walls.

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Where there were two, one cat now remains. She wanders the house, moaning, finds a towel upon which he once slept and burrows in. – Written by @FOFOEOCOCO.

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We talk about my cats, 15 years old, aged, sickly, how I’ll handle their certain fate. We talk: she, my 77-year-old mother, and I.

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