He’d better be glad he’s good-looking

What is it with a cat that he would run up behind his adopted mother night after night, bite her gently on the calf, hold his teeth there for a moment, and then run away as if he had achieved a notable triumph?

I’m a dog person. I’ve spent decades telling generations of dogs how to behave, and having them say, Yes, sir, right away, sir!” so I make a real effort to cut Brewsky a lot of slack due to his unfortunate catliness, but honor requires that I uphold a few reasonable standards. For instance, “Unless thou art home alone, thou shalt not miaow nonstop for thine supper starting two hours ahead of time. Disobedience to this standard will result in one squirt of water upon the offender’s person per offense.”

Brewsky gets squirted A LOT, but being a passive-aggressive little bastard, he knows how to get back at me. His eyes fixed upon mine, he will suddenly stand silent for a long moment while water drips from his fur, and I hold my weapon a foot from his nose. He will then walk right up to the nozzle, look me straight in the eye, and move his mouth as if he is miaowing but without making a sound. When he does this, I’m just screwed. All that’s left is for one of us to tire of the standoff and walk away so the game can start again.

Each night, the disharmony of the day is forgotten, and he jumps into bed for his massage. Some nights, I might talk to him a little, but the only word he reacts to is his name, it being the word that precedes meals and treats.

The effect of marijuana on my writing

It stimulates thoughts and feelings that I wouldn’t otherwise have, and takes me deeper into myself than I could otherwise go. It makes the commonplace profound, and the profound intense. It also takes me to the edge of panic. Sometimes, it makes my hands shake and my fingers tremble across the keyboard. I sweat and shiver at once; sometimes, I cry. My monitor recedes into another dimension. I have left the outside world for an encounter with my essence.

Marijuana is changing me. It’s too strong, and I use it too much for this to be otherwise. My belief is that I’m becoming more at peace and that I’m going deeper with my writing, but drugs are notorious for their deceptiveness, and their effects are rarely permanent. It’s also true that I’ve known few, if any, people who became wiser or more insightful for using marijuana. However, the same can be said about the influence of art, music, nature, literature, heroism, and other laudatory influences. No good thing can propel a person beyond his potential.