Spring is here in north Texas, and I have the broken fingernails and aching back to prove it.
I spent all day Sunday working in my yard, including several long hours weeding. The yard looks great, and I feel like something the cats left on the doormat.
Speaking of which, my kennel informed me last week that, should I avail myself of their services for Bobbin and Dinah in the future, I will have to pay a premium for Bobbin. Turns out the little monster wouldn't let anyone into his run while I was away. He attacked workers using claws and teeth. After two days of not being fed, he allowed them to shove his food through the door. But he wasn't letting them in to clean his litter box.
Who'd a-thunk it? I'd asked them to put Dinah in a separate run because I suspected Bob would be irritable about being boarded for the first time (I've always asked my neighbors to keep an eye on him when I've been away before, but didn't want to leave him and Dinah alone at home together). I was afraid he'd take his annoyance out on Dinah, who is still only about half his size.
Bob's never hurt another human before though, and he's a pussycat (no pun intended) with me. When I went to pick him and Dinah up, the kennel manager asked me to go into his run and crate him myself. He was so glad to see me, he let out a shriek and leaped into my arms; I almost ended up on my rump on the floor of the run. He started to lick my cheek like a dog. I was torn between being touched and being aggravated. He howled all the way home in his crate. His voice was hoarse by the time I pulled into my driveway.
Since we've been home again, he won't let me out of his sight. He kept lying down on the weeds I was trying to pull this afternoon and, right now, he's draped around my shoulders like a feline boa. A very, very heavy and hot feline boa.
Talk about separation anxiety.
I have jury duty on Monday . . . and it's my own damn fault.
Earlier this month, one of the administrative assistants at the University pulled jury duty, and I bragged that, after having been called every year for four years in a row, I hadn't had a call in nearly five years. As I said it, I could almost hear the faint sound of a bell tolling. Sure enough, ten days later, I got a jury duty summons.
Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of my nation's judicial system and don't mind serving. I just wish they'd let me pick the week. Somehow, some way, they always serve me notice for EXACTLY the worst possible week.
Oh, well. The last time I was in voir dire, I announced I was a fiction writer and looking forward to the murder trial. The attorneys dumped me like last week's trash.
I'll have to see what kind of trial they're offering me today.