I awoke this morning to the sounds of the undead clawing their way out of the confines of earth. I stumbled to the kitchen ready to do battle with any poltergeist unfortunate enough to float between me and Mr. Coffee's elixir.
No ghosts made themselves readily apparent, but the sounds were increasing in volume and frequency. Mocha java in hand, I stepped outside and peered around the corner of the house, certain I'd find coffin splinters and bony footprints in the ravaged dirt.
Nope. Kittens. Two cute kitties yowling and spitting and growling. Great. Some jack@ss must have tossed them out of his speeding redneckmobile. "I took'em to a right nice farm, kids." Jerk.
I had no choice but to bundle them up and take them to the humane society, which is what Mr. Has No Qualms About Dropping His Responsibilities Into Someone Else's Lap should have done instead of pitching them on the side of the road amidst the drift of McDonald's debris, beer bottles, and deer carcasses. That last is not from deer being hit by cars by the way, rather, hunters don't want to pay the dump fee, so they stuff Bambi into an off-brand lawn and leaf bag and heave the slaughtered remains over the side of their ginormous truck bed at 50 miles an hour. The cheap bags split on contact, spewing grisly parts into view.
Sorry--hope you're not snacking on venison jerky right now.
Anyhoo, I tote in the kitties to the humane society, and two hefty teenage girls in scrubs start interrogating me about the circumstances under which these "strays" "happened" to just "show up" at my house.
"Look, can you take them or not?"
"We request a donation."
"Well I'm giving you two kittens."
Not a hint of a sense of humor.
"How about $20?" I offered.
They looked at each other for a moment, then finally nodded.
After all that, I think I'd have preferred the zombies.
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