SUNNY lobbied to go outside this morning. I said, "OK, we're going out there, little girl, but we've gotta watch out for coyotes and stuff." She got all twitchy and then yammered. She never meows. It's always squalling, and howling, and yammering. No meows.
When I opened the door, the darned fool bolted toward freedom, running idiotically into the sunlight in all directions. That's Sunny all over. She's like a goddam caffeinated weasel.
It was an incredibly beautiful day. It was—it continues to be—the kind of day in which the air feels beautiful. I checked out Modjeska Peak before me. It shone in the sun. The day just sparkled.
Sunny's no fool (well, actually she's a total fool). Anyway, she, too, seemed to appreciate the super-fine weather. She checked out everything.
She ate some grass. She was mighty particular about the blades she ate. She rejected most of 'em. I don't get it.
She took a dirt bath. Check it out.
She found a sunny spot and planted her chin on the dirt. She kinda rested like that for a while.
After about twenty minutes, I called to her, and she ran indoors like a lunatic. Standard stuff.
I had some clippings over in the corner. One had a picture of Tom Fuentes on it. She started retching, like she does. I started to get a rag.
She puked all over Tom. I walked up to clean up her puke ball. (I always call 'em "puke balls.") I looked at the hideous thing, leaking through the paper, distorting Tom's image, stinkin' up my room.
"Well, you got that right, Sunny Girl," I said. "You sure got that right."
I scrunched the clip and the rag together and threw the entire mess, first, into a plastic bag, then into the trash barrel outside.
"You are one sweet cat, Sunny girl!", I shouted. Don't know if she heard me. I think she's deaf or something.
