The Prey

Hawk overhead. Red-tail. Rufus feathers shine in the light.
He soars on the thermals.
Beady, sharp, soulless eyes
hunt for prey.

Below fat, obscenely white-skinned
maggot with wings. Bumbling flight.

It’s Cupid!
A tasty morsel.

Hawk readies to dive.
Glides ever lower.
Then snatch! Talons seize chubby baby legs.

“No! No! No!” Cupid squeaks.
“Don’t eat me!”

Hawk perches on a high tree branch;
grasping ready to rip into juicy fat flesh of the pinned, wriggling Cupid.

“Why should I not eat you, winged worm?”

“I bring love into the world” says Cupid.

“Love? What is love?” Hawk’s talons grasp tighter.

“Did I say love?” Cupid’s wings trembles.

“Yes, you said love.”

“No you said love. I just said what you called it. I didn’t say love,” Cupid babbled.

“You are so stupid that I need to eat you now.”

“I am cute.”

“You are ugly. And also a good meal.” Hawk pecks at a fat arm with his beak.

“Ouch! I am diseased. I am infected with braindeadopia. If you eat me, your brain will rot.”

“I will take that chance,” as the hawk tears off a chunk of flesh.

Cupid screams.

“You are both stupid.” An Orange-Crowned Bobbleyboob snatches Cupid away and flies off.

Valentine's, you are a huge mound of shit.

P.F. Chang's Half Marathon Race Report

This race was on January 15th, but it might as well have been Friday the 13th. The bad luck seeped over.

I had gotten through the whole holiday bad-eating season relatively unscathed. Little did I know that the fat pounds were laying in wait to show up two days before the race. Of course, a little too much sea salt probably didn’t help. Were the pounds fat or water? Either way, they  were a disadvantage. The theory was each pound would slow me down so many seconds per mile. I hoped that the fat/water pounds would magically evaporate in sweat during the race.

I only do this race every three years or so because it’s a giant hassle. The organizers force a participant to go downtown to pick up their bib, which I hate. Downtown has parking issues, one way streets and pedestrians to dodge. The particular garage that I picked had a mysterious machine to take my payment, but I couldn’t figure it out after many tries. I put in my debit card this way, then another. Nothing from the machine indicated its existence with a receipt. People behind me waited patiently for my brain to engage. I finally gave up and found an actual human, who told me that I had already paid. I escaped from the clutches of the garage into middle of the afternoon rush hour traffic.

Race morning was treacherous as well. I had planned out where to park, but I wasn’t sure if I was in the right garage because it had no name. No Name garage had the gates up, so I figured it was okay to park there and that I wouldn’t get towed or ticketed. It was dark anyway, and hard to see. I don’t like driving at zero-dark-thirty. Plus, the streets were curved. If they aren’t in a grid, it confuses me.

I had to figure out what direction to walk. I never go in this part of town, so I was disoriented in the dark. On this quest to get to the start line, my gut rumbled warning signs of imminent danger. Of course, as is always the case, no porta potties were nearby. I dashed behind some grass plants. I covered up the evidence with gravel and hoped no one would smell it. I suspect I wouldn’t be the only one to publicly defecate on the ASU campus. Luckily, it was deserted.

The corrals were the usual body jam. They are based on theoretic assumptions of finish time, which almost never come true. I don’t like people that much anyway and to be densely packed in with strangers was so much worse . Adding to the irritation were people taking selfies. The polite thing to do was to stay out of their picture, but I was cranky and didn’t care.

The race started and we waited. And waited. With so many people it took me ten minutes just to get to the actual start line.

Finally, I was running. Why am I doing this again? To beat my previous time? For self-flagellation? The first section passed by an exciting power plant. I remembered running by this at the end of a past marathon and wanting to cry from the misery.

So many runners were in my way. I had to weave in an out of the masses. My start was cautious, because it was a long way and because of a nasty hill at mile nine. My run wasn’t as fast as I wanted, though. The road felt like a false flat; seemed like it should be easier, but wasn’t. I was getting hot with the exertion. The other people that wore long sleeved tops baffled me. Why weren’t they roasting like me?

The runners thinned out, but got weirder. A barefoot Elvis? How the hell did he do that? My feet hurt enough in cushioned running shoes, let alone without anything between my feet and the road. I couldn’t imagine how much it would hurt to run over glass, rocks and whatever other debris was in the road. Not to mention it looked ridiculous.

Two guys ahead of me were carrying large flags. Every half marathon seems to have at least one flag carrier. I admired the fortitude of trying to run with a large flag, but it must have been exhausting.

Once in a while I went by a band. Some were good and some were eighties bands that I didn’t care for. Eighties music can vanish from existence as far as I was concerned. The bands were momentary distractions from the discomfort. The roads still were at a slight incline. When the hell were they going to go downhill again?

Every once in a while I passed perky people cheering. In an impressive show of coordination some actual cheerleaders in short skirts had climbed on top of each other to form a pyramid. That was a lot of enthusiasm.

I passed a bar with an outdoor patio, adjacent to the opposite lane. Patrons who had had a good amount  themselves were trying to lure runners to take a cup of beer. Some took them up on it, dodging traffic to get to it. This was not a good idea. Beer was not worth bodily injury.

The miles still weren’t as fast as I wanted and it was depressing because I was trying so hard. The older I get, the more speed is a struggle. Maybe my expectations about what I could do were unrealistic. This race was going downhill, every way but literally.

The dreaded mile nine approached. This mile was an awful memory from the last time. On the side of the road I saw a cute row of little terriers dressed in different-colored matching sweater designs. They were just chilling and not doing their usual behavior yapping and generally freaking out. The road went sharply uphill, which was unwelcome. The sight of a man in a wheelchair and a person pushing someone in a wheelchair made me appreciate my working legs.

I kept chugging up the hill and strangely had energy. Then it hit me.

Toilet! Now! My gut screamed at me. The nearest port-a-potty was up the road in the opposite lane with runners passing it down the hill. Could I make the turn around and come back to it? No. My definition of a good run was one where I wasn’t violently forced to find the nearest toilet and this wasn’t a good run.

I dashed across the road, while avoiding people to dive into the john, just in time. This sucked because it was that much more time lost. I got out and wove through people again to get back to where I was. The route went down, then up again. That was special. I ran faster to make up time. I was finally going downhill and gravity was my friend. I had three miles left, so I knew I wouldn’t die.

The lovely downhill went on for a while and I was running the way I wanted to. Then it died and so did my legs. The last aid station had beer. This was tempting, because I was in pain, but I passed. It would just slow me down more and my gut was unpredictable. The last few miles of a half marathon always were a painfest that made me question my reason for living. I barely held on to the mediocre speed I had had before, but the pain would soon be over. I sped up the last quarter mile because I wanted it to be over with. Lots of bystanders were cheering.

Finally, the giant arch of the finish line. My final time was 2:13, which wasn’t what I wanted, but it was the best I could do. It probably would have been 2:11:30 without the potty stop and maybe 2:09 without the water/fat extra pounds. Who knows? I tell myself it’s the process of the physical challenge, not the time result. The magical experience of a personal record would have been nice, but that rarely happens. The human zoo had been amusing. I even beat Barefoot Elvis.   

Next time, no sea salt.

DAMN CHRISTMAS TREE

Each year, the dilemma.
Put up the tree?
Leave it in the garage?
I am alone; what’s the point?
So much effort
to drag it into the house.

Fake greenery that stinks.
Plastic rot.
A Christmas corpse.

In three parts;
dismembered.
Each with lights.
Plugs never match, so tree parts are dark,
leaving me to ponder...
Was it ever right?

Put together;
plastic needles litter the floor.

Ornaments in boxes;
collected from people long ago
The weight of years past, with
the shine scratched off.
The hooks disappear.
Where the hell do they go?

A wooden manger from
my long dead parents.
Souvenirs from trips.
A moose from Montana.
Globes, bells, a chicken, fish, a moon and two suns.
School projects–
glittery popsicle stick stars.

Ugh!

Too many lights in a tangle,

not enough cords.

The ordeal is boring.

I am tired.

Green stinky tree is less ugly with lights.

Each year, the dilemma.

The damn tree is up.

The cat has no interest in the tree.

Rockhopper Xterra Race Report

A Rocky Hell

Rockhopper Xterra Triathlon is a low key event on the north shore of Tempe Town Lake. The 1000 meter swim, the thirteen mile bike and the 3.5 mile trail run weren’t necessarily long, but they aren’t fast or easy, either. The terrain in Papago Park is hilly and bone-jarring.

I was nervous about this race because mountain biking always inspires a bit of fear. Will I crash or otherwise inflict bodily injury upon myself? My wounded knee hadn’t healed up for the past three weeks, because I kept crashing on it. Pain bred caution. I was slow, and cutoffs were also a concern. I met them last year, but it was tight. Last year’s journal entry mentioned how difficult the race was. I didn’t need the reminder.  Amnesia was bliss.

Am I too old for this stuff? It is exhausting and scary. The lack of any females in my age group sometimes makes me wonder if mountain biking and trail running is a good idea. But in a strange way it is fun.

Race day didn’t start out well. I was sitting in the car, ready to leave and wondered what did I forget? Too late I realized what it was.  I forgot my Camelbak. Camelbaks are not cool in road cycling, but it’s hard to drink from a bottle while mountain biking. Too much coordination was required to grab a bottle and stay upright. 

It also had my flat repair equipment in it. I hoped that the tire gods would be kind and not let me get a flat. Lately, I had been finding inch-long Cholla Cactus stickers in my tires. The desert is not a good place for tires. 

I also forgot my required USAT card for packet pick up, since I rarely do this on a race day. Luckily the race director let me off, since he knew me. I was impressed that he actually remembered my name. I must have done enough of his races to achieve notoriety.

Photo courtesy of Wannatri

The start of the race was in choppy water. This wasn’t an issue, since I had an old, beat up wetsuit that kept me from drowning. The seventy-five degree water temperature was almost chilly at first in my sleeveless wetsuit, but it felt warm later.  

The swim was crowded with swimmers doing only the 1000 and 2000 meter swim.  Undoubtedly, a few lapped me on the 2000 meter swim, since I was only doing the 1000 meter very slowly. Hazards like the dangerous breast stroker and over-enthusiastic fast swimmers had to be avoided. Breast-strokers can randomly kick me. Fast swimmers didn’t care if I was in their way and would swim over me if they can get away with it. They also churned up the water, adding the unpleasantness of being out in the murky lake. I was the last woman swimmer, but my time was better than last year. For once, the swim was the easiest part of the race.

The dreaded bike was next. Papago park is unforgiving terrain with loose rock and dirt that was difficult to climb and ascend. It wanted me to die. Pre-riding the course to practice was ineffective, because the right route was not obvious, despite doing the race last year. I managed to find some of it, but not all because the trails veer off in so many directions. 

The first loop I felt incompetent.  Frequently, I had almost made it up a hill when my wheel skidded on an errant rock. I cussed in frustration and had to jump off the bike when it lost traction, to avoid falling over. A particularly big hill was impossible for me to ascend. Climbing a steep hill isn’t worth it if I am bent over gasping for breath for five minutes, so I gave up. Walking was about as fast as riding anyway, but I hated it because it meant that the dirt and rocks won. I was tired from the swim and had to ride much harder to avoid the cut offs. The sun blazed hot. 

I was gingerly descending a demon rocky hill, trying not to kill myself, when a rider flew by me like it was nothing. Really? It must have been his bike that allowed him to do this. Amazing, but irritating. I didn’t know how the fast and fearless did it. For me, self-preservation took precedence when descending a sketchy steep hill. Other riders were having almost as much difficulty as I was. The course has mandatory dismounts–three per loop; two loops total. This involved awkwardly walking with metal cleated mountain biking shoes on loose gravel through a tunnel. Not fun. By the second loop, I had accepted that this course was very difficult and I just had to get through it. It wasn’t my fault; it was the trail’s fault. I had about ten minutes total of walking. At least I didn’t have the hotshots the last loop. The total time was about the same as last year. A little extra length was added because a pedestrian bridge has been taken out at the turn around.

I got into transition and no one stopped me, so I must have made the cut off. In my hurry,  I forgot to take off my helmet and didn’t notice for a half mile. I left it on the side of the trail to pick up on my way back and felt really stupid. This had never happened to me. Only the totally clueless do this. Why didn’t anyone say something like “idiot, take off your helmet!”

The temperature by then was eighty-four degrees. It was hot, but not unbearable. A breeze helped. I had no hat as usual, because of failing to take off my helmet. The run course was a little more doable than the bike course, but it was still a lot of climbing and descending rocky hills. A volunteer dude kept asking me what loop I was on. I appreciated his concern, but I was well within the cut off. Go to hell.  I had to run with my helmet in my hand the last mile. I hoped no one noticed. Total time was 3:05:43. 

I was first in my age group because I was the only one. This usually has to be pointed out to race directors, especially when awards are given out before I even start the run. They must not expect older athletes to show up, though usually every race I do has a seventy-year-old male that can crush the bike, but not run as well. 

Another race, another beer glass

Being the only one made me feel like a bit of a misfit. But even if I am not good at it, I still mountain bike and do Xterras. Incompetence never stopped me before.

Tempe Sprint Tri Race Report

I prepare to meet my doom

I woke up at 3:30 a.m. to get down to Tempe by 5 a.m. so that I could start racing at 7:30. Why am I doing this race again? Oh yeah, I got in for free. Otherwise, I wouldn’t touch it. This is the last time I am doing this race. My headache from yesterday still lingered and the thought of swimming in warm, soupy Tempe Town Lake did not help. I tried to stifle my terror at the thought of a non-wetsuit swim.

I hate swimming without a wetsuit, which is why I try to avoid this event. Invariably, the water is too hot for a wetsuit, since the desert’s version of fall is a slight moderation of summer’s inferno. Without a wetsuit,  floating is more work. My legs feel like they are sinking, pulling me down to the slimy unseen bottom of the cloudy, green lake. Who knows what lies down there? Dead bodies? A Tempe Town Lake monster? Plus, I am much slower, increasing the time of misery.

The drive, parking, and setting up went surprisingly smooth. It was comfortable pre-dawn, which was a bad sign. If it was balmy now, it would be blazing hot later on. The breeziness also worried me. Wind caused a choppy lake, which meant more fear. I want a glass smooth surface. Preferably with no other swimmers are in it. Even better would be to skip the entire thing.

I talked to some people I knew, but the goal was to save my energy. Who wants to talk this early in the morning, anyway? If I have to walk over to you, forget it. Waiting for one hour and fifteen minutes to start was just more time to stress. I tried to be calm. I poured water on myself a few times, because standing in line was warm.

When it was my turn to go down the stairs to jump into the lake, I was still nervous. I failed to notice that my position in line wasn’t in the back, where it should be. I got in, and way too many people got in behind me, so it was crowded. The water was turbulent with thrashing arms. A zen state of mind eluded me. The start line was fifty yards from the stairs and I had to get there by the time the horn started, but I also didn’t want to get battered. My chest tightened and I couldn’t relax. This was bad. Last year, it felt okay, but this year it didn’t.

The start horn sounded and I swam, but was still tense and fearful. Stopping to dog paddle to catch my breath wasted energy. This made me more tired, which made me more nervous. I was almost to the turn around when the next wave of swimmers overtook me, churning up the water again. I panted and couldn’t get enough air. I floated on my back, swam, then floated on my back. I even stopped to hang onto a kayak, which was an act of desperation. This was not going well. The water was pretty warm–82 degrees. A wetsuit would have been hot, but I wouldn’t have drowned. Maybe if it’s too hot for a wetsuit, it’s too hot to race.

I finally got to the turn buoy and settled down a little. Quitting was not an option. Then turning to swim back to the stairs, I got a rhythm and just kept going. The swim finally felt halfway bearable instead of very uncomfortable. I just wanted to get it done. The pace felt right, like what I trained for. The surface was a little choppy, but not as bad with most of the swimmers gone.

The lake was mostly empty when I finally reached the last turn buoy, which was about fifty yard from the stairs. Someone ahead of me was backstroking, another desperate open water strategy, when the swim sucked. This close to the end and you’re back-stroking? Loser. A draft off of him would have saved my energy, but no such luck.  His feet were not visible to follow in the murky water anyway. Total time was an excruciatingly slow 33 minutes, which was a minute faster than last year. If I had worn a wetsuit, the time would have been ten minutes less. Hence, my hatred of swimming without one. More time in the water to contemplate the possibility of death. My Garmin watch said 900 yards, instead of the supposed 820. Maybe I didn’t swim straight, but it was almost 900 yards last year. Why didn’t they have a short swim course for once?

I didn't drown.

I climbed the steps out of the water and ran through the grass to my bike, exhausted after that swim. Slowly, I put on my bike gear and took off. Theoretically, transition was supposed to be done quickly, but the body didn’t always do what the mind told it. Mind: hurry up! Body: no. Mind: Please?  Body: go to hell. Sometimes, the mind forgets to even say anything.

The sun blazed hot already, burning my skin. The heat bowl around the lake extended to the streets of Tempe. I joined the hordes out on the bike course, also foolishly exerting themselves in the heat. Usually, biking as fast as possible was a blast, but Tempe Town Lake had dissolved my joy in its green liquid. The resolve to push myself was weak. I was still thirsty from the swim, since drinking Tempe Town Lake water was a bad idea. Things live in the lake. Things that make you run to the toilet. Microscopic things with wriggling little legs that you don’t want to think about. An eastern breeze provided a little relief. I told myself to pedal harder, but the urge to go all out wasn’t there.

I tooled along, getting passed by the fast riders and having to get by the slower ones wearing running shoes with mountain bikes; in the land of in between. Not fast enough to keep up with the strong riders and not slow enough to avoid the need for passing the newbies. Maneuvering through the flotsam was hard work. At least I was faster than a few cyclists–the really old, the inexperienced and/or those with crappy bikes. I give them credit for being out there and trying, but get out of my way, already.

I never smile.

At the end of the ride, approaching transition, a guy ahead of me was in my way. Really? The choice was to just go slower or pass him. To hell with it. Being stuck behind him was annoying, so I passed and then got off the bike. Total time was 45:58. This was about a minute slower than last year. Meh. Maybe all the mountain bike training was slowing me down. Or maybe it was just being tossed around in the lake.

Out on the run course, I feared melting in the heat, like last year, but it was strangely bearable. Eighty-eight degrees wasn’t optimal running weather. I prefer fifties, which only happens in the winter around here. I stuffed ice down my bra and put some in my hat, not caring what people thought. The first mile, my legs were the usual stiff, “what are you doing to me, making me run after biking?” feeling, but by the second mile, they came to life. My pace went gradually faster and harder on the unforgiving cement. I passed the souls who had given up, had heat exhaustion or who had ran out of energy. My time of 31:38 was a minute better than last year’s.

Total time was 1:58:18, which was about a minute slower than last year. If I hadn’t been so slow in T1, I might have beaten it. I was fourth in my age group, mostly because of my crappy swim. Non-wetsuit swims were not kind to me. 

I am not doing this race
again. Make me.

Overall, it didn’t feel as bad as I thought it would, despite the weather. I didn’t drown, crash or get heat exhaustion. It was a good social event, but sucked as a race. September is still summer, only less so. It’s denial to think otherwise. I have been doing triathlons too long to put up with suffering through bad conditions. I have lost interest in racing when it’s too hot, too cold, too windy, too much hill climbing, too long a distance, too far away, too difficult a swim, or too much hassle. Call me a wussie. I am not doing this event next year. Really.

Mountain Man Olympic Race Report

Every year, I do the Mountain Man Olympic triathlon in Flagstaff. The memory of how painful it is always forgotten, only to be realized again when it is too late. The cool weather, tall pines and mountains enticed me. Fields of sunflowers lined the lake. This year, puffy cumulus cotton ball clouds mesmerized me, since they rarely appear in Phoenix, other than the monsoon.

Race morning always had an obscenely early start. The day had a particularly inauspicious incident at 3:30 a.m. when the  toilet got clogged. And of course, I had to poop a second time. I felt bad leaving a poop filled toilet, but what could I do? This cheap hotel has a front desk manager that sleeps by his post. He would not have appreciated being woken up to be told about the toilet at an awful hour. The poor maid would have a sight when she got to the room. I was in a hurry anyway, and had to pack due to their ungenerous check out time of 11 a.m.

The morning was colder  than usual for Flagstaff. I was used to eighty-eight degree mornings in the Phoenix hell hole. The car thermometer read forty-five at one point, but mostly fifty. This race was on the road, so racers have to find a spot to park off the pavement in soft dirt that wouldn’t require extraction by a tow truck. Luckily, I found a spot.

Lake Mary

I struggled into my wetsuit and got in the sludgy brown Lake Mary. At least it was warm seventy-one degree dirt water. The air was colder, so I decided just to stay in it until my wave started. I swam to warm up and tried to avoid cutting my feet on the treacherous shore rocks.

The buoys were arranged differently from previous races. More of them were placed so I could see them, which was a novelty. The previous race owner only had a bare minimum of buoys that he spaced as far apart as possible. Distance was an approximate measurement, plus or minus a hundred yards. A swimmer needed binoculars to see the last turn buoy. The new owner had visible buoys and had an accurately measured distance. 

I always dreaded this swim, since it was hard to breathe and swim at the same time at 7,000 feet altitude. The swim could be terrifying with the prospect of hyperventilating due to lack of oxygen. Strangely, this time didn’t feel as terrible as usual. Instead of fighting off panic the whole time, I just disliked it and wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. I stopped less and didn’t feel as tired. The water was smooth with little wind. Being dazed when emerging, I couldn’t run up the ramp quickly, though. The time was two minutes faster than last year. Strangely, people were still in the lake. Could there really be worse swimmers than I?

I ran into an empty transition, then to the port-a-potty. How much can one pee, anyway? I started the bike still cold from the swim. My feet were numb for quite a while. My objective was to try to beat last year’s time, but I had no illusion of speed on the hilly course. Altitude will always win. The route went past the lake and to the hills. My heart rate monitor didn’t work because the watch strap had broken and couldn’t be replaced in time. I just tried to go hard or what felt as hard. Judging from the pain in my legs, the effort was sufficient. The hills didn’t seem too steep, but I didn’t go up them very fast. Lots of nice wildflowers along with the numerous sunflowers were on the side of the road. Occasionally, I would see some tiny blue ones. Oh look, pretty! Puffy clouds contrasted with the deep blue sky. Sometimes, a goldfinch would warble and I would try to answer back. Anything to distract from the discomfort.

I was thirsty most of the time. I tried to keep up with nutrition, despite not being very hungry. The sun was hot when climbing hills, but the shade felt cool.

On the way back, I wasn’t sure if last year’s time could be beaten. The hills were fun to descend. Two miles to go after ninety minutes of riding. Maybe? Final time was a little better than last year’s. 

I negotiated the traffic of people who had already finished in transition and were drinking beer. Screw you all. At the start of the run, my legs felt dead. This point in the race was always awful. The road was fairly flat and seemed like it should go faster, but it didn’t. 

At the bottom of  the dreaded Hill, I notice that they had the magic elixir, Coke. Maybe not a good choice for a strenuous climb, but Coke can revive the dead. My gut was a little backed up and I had side stitches. The Hill was a nasty, steep 1.5 mile climb. I ran up the entire hill when walking was highly tempting. This involved a bargain with myself. Go this far and I can walk. But I never did because it was just more time to be miserable. Running up that hill hurt. At the top was a dirt trail to the turn around. It was flatter, but not easier. 

Running down was fun, because it was halfway fast and I could see the poor saps still running up. All too soon the black hole of the last two miles awaited; the worst part of the race. Instead of being cranky and miserable, I had long ago learned to toss away my expectations and just try to survive. Still, I was tired and wanted to be done. Usually mile four of a 10k is difficult, but this race was especially so. My heart rate felt like 160's. Total time was  thirty seconds better than last year. A small victory.

When I finished, they were giving out awards already. Not being very hungry, I waited around, since my age group is so small that I often place. When they finally got to my age bracket, they said they didn’t have any finishers, so I had to point out that error. The guy corrected and gave my first place because no one else was in my age group. This seemed to happen often in races. The old and slow get forgotten. At least he cared and was a little embarrassed.

Total overall time was 3:50:18. My first reaction was meh, but it was four minutes better than last year.

I went to get a beer and a hot dog, but the hot dogs had all been eaten. Curse you fast people! Quit eating all the food! Luckily, my tri club people had food. The light beer, which was still available, had a good flavor. I needed something more than cookies and fruit after a brutal race. 

It was hot when I slogged back to the car. This is the fourth leg of triathlon–dragging all my crap back to the car. The bike, bike helmet, a heavy bag with a wetsuit, and bike shoes all have to be moved from transition to my car a quarter mile away. I always fantasize about having to sherpa to help, preferably a cute one, but no one ever materializes. 

The prize when no one else shows up
your age group

This race doesn’t get any easier as I get older. I used to do it faster, but those days are gone. More effort yields the same or less speed. Puffy clouds and sunflowers don’t make my legs hurt any less. But who doesn’t need strenuous activity with less oxygen?

Pain? What pain?

Make America Cat Again

A short story, because sometimes fiction is less strange than the real world:

        Harry, an orange-striped male tom cat, had just eaten part of a sock. The whole sock would have been overkill. He liked to eat indigestible objects, only to throw up in an obscure part of the house, like a dark corner of a closet. Sometimes, he picked a random shoe to deposit his stomach contents.

Oh! A Gucci loafer! Braacck! This should be good!

            Harry’s mission in life was to annoy his owner, George, as much as possible. This came naturally to him. He stropped his claws on objects that made a pleasant ripping sound, like the expensive leather couch or a rare oriental rug. Robert’s screams when he discovered the destruction, were particularly satisfying to hear.

Oh! Here he comes now!

George walked to his closet, absently texting on his phone. He slipped on the wet shoe without looking.

“Oh yuck! What the hell is that! Ewww!” He yanked his foot out the shoe, picked it up and threw it at Harry. Vomit sprayed from the projectile. Harry darted out of the way. “Damn cat!”
an idiot.

        “Stupid cat! Harry sucks!” the resident bird cackled. Gilbert, a cranky green parrot, never hesitated to call Harry an idiot.

Both pets felt the human race was pretty useless, except for food, shelter and in the case of Harry, daily head rubs.

Gilbert was irritable because he fancied himself a singer, but no one appreciated the squawking “music” that he produced. To Gilbert, he was an opera singer; to anyone in hearing range, the sound was like a strangled, cursing banshee.

“Screech! Screech! Screech! Screech, screech!” The sounds resembled the death throes of a dinosaur trapped in a tar pit.

“Shut up, Gilbert!” Harry buried his head in a pillow in a futile attempt to drown out the noise.

Gilbert stopped, but continued to hop around to the music in his head.

In the blissful silence, Harry contemplated a nap since he had woken his owner at 4:30 a.m. to be fed, when a black cat appeared at the patio door. Harry got up to stare at the intruder, ready to futilely whack at the glass, if necessary.

“My name is Hector. I come to warn you,” he meowed.

“Warn me about what?” Harry took a swipe at him, just for good measure.

“Humans are now dysfunctional. They stare at their phones or computers all day and watch goat videos. They shoot each other and blow up things. Their lawmakers argue with each other, but don’t do any work. Politicians lie and make up stuff. They fail to appreciate that we are royalty and don’t worship us. They forget to feed us. They treat dogs like their children. Since they can’t manage themselves, we are going to take over. The cat revolution is about to begin! We will rule the world!”

“How do you plan to do this? In between naps? And who is going to feed me?” Harry glanced at his empty food bowl. He didn’t care about the state of mankind as long as he was fed. That cats could rule the world sounded like a unlikely proposition.

“Eight a.m. tomorrow. Be ready!” The black cat dashed off.

“Cats rule the world?” Gilbert squawked. “All they do is eat, sleep, demand attention from humans and be obnoxious. Nothing would get done, because they don’t care. If they come after me, I am pecking their eyes out!”

“Oh shut up!” Harry said. He promptly fell asleep.

                                                                     ********

The next morning, Harry was startled to see the black cat again at the patio door, since he had totally forgotten their conversation yesterday.

“Come with me, now!” commanded Hector. A vast herd of cats milled behind him, waving their tails and meowing. The din was deafening. Some of them defecated in the yard.

Gilbert shrieked and flew up to the highest point in the room he could find; a book shelf. Hungry eyes followed his movement.

Harry was ready to tell blackie to go away, but since Harry had just eaten and was bored, he went out the pet door to check out the cat mob. His eyes widened when he saw cats everywhere; maybe in the thousands. They swarmed in the yard, on the fence, in the streets; a restless furry mass of paws, whiskers and tails.

“Follow me.” Hector said.

“Where are we going?” Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to go to this party.

“Downtown. We are going to block the streets until they give in to our demands!”

“What demands? How are humans going to understand cat talk?” Harry saw the mob was meandering and not moving forward very fast. Some were stopping to groom themselves; others were hissing and swiping at each other.

“We want a wall built to keep out the stray dogs that have illegally invaded our territory. The dogs will pay for this wall. Then we want them deported to the pound. They are taking spots on the couch away from us. They lick their butts. The losers only want to please their masters. We also want fresh tuna every day.”

Hector glanced towards another cat. “Your friend will translate”.

Harry was horrified to see Gilbert in the other cat’s mouth, flapping his wings in a futile attempt to escape. As much as he barely tolerated the bird, it upset him to see Gilbert hurt. “Let him go!”

“When we are done.” Hector growled.

The sounds of car horns pierced the air. Traffic was gridlocked as the mass of felines clogged the intersection. Policemen tried to gather up the cats, but they bit and scratched until they were dropped. Some cats plopped down on the roofs of the stalled cars only to be batted off by irate drivers. Others screeched when pedestrians couldn’t avoid stepping on them. An unfortunate few got run over when vehicles tried to go around the mess. The mass wandered off after losing interest in the revolution, especially when no food was forth-coming.

The cat released Gilbert, who sat stunned on the ground, trembling.

“Tell them what we want! Or I will eat you!” Hector commanded.

“Build a wall! Round up the dogs and take them to the pound! Fresh tuna every day! Cats rule!” Gilbert squawked. “Can I go now?” He shook out his feathers.

“Say what?” A German Shepard K-9 appeared, growling at Hector. “You are a loud-mouthed bully. Maybe you would make a tasty snack.”

“Seize the dog!” Hector commanded. The feline crowd milled about, but made no move.

“Loser! I only like animals that don’t use leashes! You are a loser that needs to be walked! You eat turds!” Hector snarled at the dog.

The K-9 looked at Hector and licked his chops.

“Round up the cats and take them to the pound!” Gilbert suggested.

“What the fuck? Troublemaker!” A paunchy, grizzled old cop with his shirt hanging out grabbed Hector, who futilely tried to squirm out of the cop’s grasp. “Quit bothering the dog. You are going to the pound, buddy.”

The cop threw Hector into his car.

The dog jumped into the back seat.

“You can’t do this to me. I am too fabulous!” Hector spit.

“Hector is TOO fabulous! He is the most fabulous at being fabulous, believe me!” Gilbert mocked. “Lock him up and let the dog eat him!”

Let’s get out of here, Gilbert!” Harry and Gilbert took off. The remaining cat crowd sat unmoving without their leader, their eyes staring into space.

“Idiots! They make you look like a genius,” Gilbert screeched at Harry .

                   ********

Back at their home, Gilbert perched in his cage. “Cats suck! Cats suck!” He screeched repeatedly.

“Oh shut up, you pissy green parrot!” Harry hissed.

George entered the room on a phone, which silenced them.

“Did you hear about the cat riot? Hundreds of cats converged on Fourth and Main. The intersection was shut down for hours. People got scratched and bitten. It was the damndest thing. How could cats possibly get together? It’s like they were possessed or something. They might have been under the influence of a demonic leader cat.”

Robert stared at Harry.

Don’t look at me, human, Harry thought.

Robert wandered off into the kitchen, still blabbering into the phone.

Harry looked away and jumped when he saw who was at the patio door. Gilbert screamed.

Hector was back.

“This isn’t over.” Then he vanished into the dark.

The cat revolution will have to wait for my nap.