Tiger & Lion Update



Well, from the "I Told You So" files comes word that the lion cub that was snatched by an idiotic New York Post reporter is not doing well. Poor fuzzer was ripped from mama's giant paws and now is suffering from pneumonia, dehydration, and general disorientation. It's struggling to maintain body warmth, and is not doing well on formula. Bottom line? This Post asshole should have his skin ripped off by mama's big claws for pulling such a stupid stunt. Hey everyone! I can purchase plutonium and get away with it! Now, where do I add hydrogen to make a bomb? Just because you can do things on the internet doesn't mean you have to follow through. And the people that took the money for this poor creature have such incredibly bad karma coming their way, there's not even a scale to measure their bad luck.



Roy is also not doing well after Montecore's little Tiger fit 2 Fridays ago. He had a stroke on the operating table, and lost huge amounts of blood. Anyone else would have been dead by now, but this is 2003. The Grim Reaper's been having a fucking party lately, and I hope his mighty scythe doesn't take Roy out. I always liked him better than Siegfried for some reason. He's dehydrated and weak as well. The show is up in the air, but Monty the Tiger has been allowed back on the habitat and is no longer quarantined. Like Dexter says, Cats will be Cats.



My little maniacs left me a nice surprise on my blankets in the form of a hairball. I wiped off what I could and will trot playfully off to the laundromat on Friday. It's so lovely that my schedule does not permit doing anything else.



I guess it's a strange metaphor that I connect with these sinewy creatures. I had to jump around and perform stupid tricks and was ripped from comfort quite early in the game, too. Someone asked me recently about the first time I felt like an adult and I answered, "Age 7." I was cooking for myself, ironing my own clothes, doing my own hair, feeding cats, doing laundry and taking out the garbage. I distinctly remember dismantling my dollhouse at age 9, thinking to myself "Why is this here? I need the space for more books." That's why I'm so good at taking care of other people. The real question is, who the hell takes care of me? This question has gone unanswered for so long, it's an unspeakable phrase. Maybe if I stood in front of a mirror and said it out loud, I'd have my answer?