March 29, 2008 by Linda Bergeron.

Politics is “the art and science of political governance,” that is, of citizens. Even in their own home. Observe the resident cat.

We have three. This morning our trio’s main spokesman, Nubbins, declared to me in his most able and annoying voice, while I was in the kitchen filling the dishwasher with last night’s dishes, that it had really been too long since I scrambled a raw egg for the three of them. It was true, so I complied. Sure, one high-priced omega-3 brown egg for the furred bunch to keep them glossy, happy and whisker-licking for awhile.

I hadn’t thought about him as a ‘spokesperson’ for the family felines before, although I have distinct opinions about this fellow whom I have been known to refer to in affection as adjectively catzoid, and to (less affectionately) send him off my lap with “Hey! Go! I don’t sit in your lap when you’re eating.”

Would the others get extras if it weren’t for Nubbins? Jetter, the speedy, tortoise-shell gorgeous princess, wouldn’t say a word, just crawl and rub close enough for her big winsome eyes to melt you, at which point you’d pet her and start chatting her up but she’d dart for the door once again ever eager to check in on the yard bird action. Draco, the queen, is super picky and does not even bother to ask for anything; one simply has to keep making the effort to please her, or appease her with a long (and repeated) head-to-tail-tip stroke as she gains your attention from on high – as from your dresser top, the knick-knack- and other delicates-studded buffet top, the porch rails, etc. She’ll accept brother Nubbins’ successful requests for appropriations, but never ask herself.

They are so bossy, so demanding, so absolutely full of themselves, and so among the beautiful people of creatures that one takes them in innocently when they are in their prime (five weeks and fluffy, and 150 percent endearing) in the full belief that you will “take care of them.”

No, as soon as they’re full-grown, able to leap tall bounds, their heart of hearts will lock into an armor of personality that deceives you through ardor. They will tell you when you need to be in bed; will find nasty, smelly ways to inform you that the litter box is definitely not fit for use; will not give a second thought to lingering at the open door to check the weather conditions while you know the 22-degree outside temperature is sucking out the house heat with every breath; will find your lap when you’re upset and look so deeply into your eyes that you will wonder why you could ever possibly dislike or not appreciate them; will make clear that their personal weakness is any of the following - a stack of papers for diving onto or checking claw strength, or an empty or not-empty box, a freshly laundered bedspread that they simply must personally scent for you, or your dark fleece vest so they can divest themselves of loose white hairs.

You come home from hours away – working, shopping, driving a distance and back, a meeting – and they arise from their slumbers awaiting your next gift. Have I never said out loud, although I wanted to, “You guys don’t even know what work is! You don’t know what I do when I leave!”

They rule outrageously. They talk us into working on their behalf. They keep our feet warm under the bedcovers, but they also thoughtlessly wake us at three a.m. when we accidentally left them out and a windstorm brews. They whine for attention and when you say you can’t, they stay close by, and turn their heads away from you as if they’re meditating on an object in the corner.

They govern terribly! And I don’t remember voting. All that I recall is how unbearably cute they were six years ago, and how long it’s been too cold and of too little sun to be able to bask in their presence and still smile.

Linda Bergeron, a freelance correspondent for the Hell’s Canyon Journal, writes poetry, autobiographical sketches, and regional history, and has been published in the Tinker’s Shop, In Context magazine and Rain magazine.

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March 21, 2008 by Clair Button.

On Sex, Gender, and Moral Superiority
One need only observe nature to understand that the female gender is morally superior to the male, and that the latter sex, being subject to the vicissitudes of severe hormonal imbalance, is prone to senseless violence and destructive impulses. On this point, I agree entirely with Ronald Reagan, although I have not spoken to him lately to determine if he has changed his opinion.

Whether or not such mindless behavior, being controlled by bodily processes other than the intellect, can be considered moral, or rather immoral behavior, is beside the point. One need only consider the result. For example, we planted some lovely young willows into our yard, anticipating that within a few years, they would become beautiful, mature specimens of rust and yellow hued branches, gracefully arching overhead and providing dappled shade. Realizing quite fully that we share our neighborhood with a significant number of wild deer that come regularly to inspect our flower beds, we anticipated some opportunity to observe the gentle creatures nibbling on the branches. And certainly, were we to rise sufficiently early on a winter or spring morning, we could count on seeing at least one doe with her fawn sampling the dormant buds if not more. Yet willows sprout vigorously, and are quite well adapted to occasional browsing by wildlife. So my wife and I were not adverse to the idea of sharing the bounty of our sweet pussy willows.

However, in the dark of night, as all shameful villains and vandals are wont to enjoy the cover of darkness, the male of the species has left his mark. Not satisfied that we have left these delectable treats unfenced for his gustatory pleasure, he has seemingly determined that since he could not eat it all, he would destroy what he could not eat, leaving none for others in his herd unless they picked it up from the ground before it dried and turned black. No, this year there will be no tall waving branches or shade, only the grotesque, malformed remnants of his unreasoning brutal presence.

Should I be so fortunate as to find that devil in the forest later this fall and legally put an end to his malicious activities, I do know that there shall be no “once and for all” to it. As these things tend to go, the miscreant has no doubt already had time to procreate and pass along all the miserable, self-indulgent, and evil aspects of his character so deeply encoded in his genes. Or if not, his evil twin, or father, or uncle is out there somewhere, making sure there will be no end to mischief. After all, he got those behavioral traits somewhere.

Clair Button is the author of the Thomas Kreuger Mystery Series, and occasionally makes attempts at humor.

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