I promised a Buddy update last week, so here
goes: We recently experienced what I refer to as the Era of the Black Death. About
two weeks ago, Buddy burst through the screen door on the deck at around 9:00
p.m., triumphantly bearing a giant black rat in his jaws. He marched over and
flung it onto his “cat bed”—a big sheet of packing paper that he commandeered
from an Amazon box and now calls home. He started crowing triumphantly and prancing
around, exuberant with hunting glory. Meanwhile Mr. Typist and I were staring
in horror at the stiff, dead rodent and already beginning a silent debate over
who was going to remove it from the apartment. I, driven more by blind panic
than quick thinking, grabbed a paper towel and thrust it into Mr. Typist’s
hands before he could object. He whisked the rat away, to Buddy’s immediate
outrage and disappointment. To distract him, I snatched one of his stuffed
toys, rubbed some catnip on it, and threw it down in place of the rat—you know,
the old “dead-rat-stuffed-animal-switcharoo” trick, but he wasn’t fooled in the
least. He grew frenzied with panic over his missing trophy, sniffing and
scratching at the paper and emitting sounds that were the verbal equivalent of “What
the bloody hell???” It took a half hour to calm him down. To add insult to
injury, it’s common knowledge that you’re supposed to compliment cats when they
bring home dinner, so we also had to pet him and say nice things.
We naively figured this was a one-off incident,
but nope. It was repeated no less than four times within the span of a week,
with only slight variations on the aforementioned scenario. I have no idea where
all of these rodents are coming from. At any rate, I think Buddy finally
figured out that when he brings in prey, we steal it, because the rat delivery service
has stopped, at least for the moment. Thank God. Otherwise, Buddy is just being
Buddy...taking 22-hours naps on our good Pendleton blanket, scamming extra
meals, and vocally complaining about the deficiencies in our efforts to
entertain him on demand. Humans are so lame.
*Sigh*. Okay, I have a confession to make. I
didn’t really want to bring this up, but it has loomed large in my reality the
last week or so. I have somehow gotten sucked into a Minecraft vortex. Before
when I have attempted Minecraft, I would just wander around at a loss for a few
minutes, knock out some blocks, shrug, and exit the game. It was all very
puzzling, and I couldn’t figure out what to do. But for some reason, I started
the game up again this week, and it suddenly clicked. With some expert tips from Mr. Typist, I was off to the races! I
have created the beginnings of an empire, my friends. I have a beautiful
cobblestone house with adorned with artwork, two skylights and an underground
spa, a lakefront view, a cow pen, a garden, free-range sheep, and soon, my own
enchanting shrine. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. (I mean, I can stop anytime
I want, I’m not an addict or anything, but you know what I
mean.) I was telling Mr. Typist the other day that I find it incredibly Zen and
relaxing. Unlike in real life, a small bit of effort in Minecraft allows me to
create any world I want. That, my friends, is very dangerous. But it’s not
going to stop me.
However, one must keep one’s mouse-clicking fingers
in good shape, and lately, I’ve been pudging up again. I have finally figured
out my exercise pattern—go hard, consistently, until my knee starts hurting.
Then get discouraged, give up, gain five to seven pounds, sulk about it for a while
and contemplate giving up entirely and allowing myself to explode into the
Michelin man, then getting back on my grind until I no longer deem myself pudgy.
Right now I’m in the “go-hard, consistently” stage. I don’t really have any
plans to change this pattern to a healthier one, so in a month or so, I’ll be
slumped on the sofa with an icepack on my knee, halfway into a bag of Ruffles.
Hashtag healthyhabitsforlife!
--Kristen
McHenry
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