Flegging Barrels

It's 2:50 Thursday afternoon, I'm rereading the resume of a young woman about to interview for an entry level position here at Zrtzmwah, and my cell phone vibrates, it's a Moco number I don't recognize, and a voice says, Mr Dogred, I say yes, and the voice says, This is Office Whatever with the Montgomery County Police.

Since posting this about the (say it derisively) Park Police's attempt to foster a riot last Tuesday generated some hits that came from addresses that may or not have been from police but were certainly from moco government domains, my first thought was that this phone call was to ask me questions about the event, but no: a neighbor has called in an official complaint against one of my ferals because the feral - gasp at the cat's evil - sleeps on her front stoop in the sun all day.

The complainant says we're harboring wild animals, and they're breeding. I quickly tell the officer the story: Yes, there are four cats, a mother and three children. The mother moved into our shed, had the kittens, it never occurred to us to consider them pests and have them killed like they were possum or raccoons, we trapped them and, with the help of Metro Ferals, paid to have them all spayed or neutered, we have the documentation, their ears are clipped, here's the name and phone number of our Metro Ferals contact, we can verify all of this. Except for the mother, none of them are feral now, they're our outdoor cats, though still feral enough they can't - and don't want to - come inside.

We're sure but the policewoman wouldn't confirm that it's the same bitch who started yelling at Earthgirl back in late April. The officer was very sympathetic, though was clear that homeowners have the right to have unwanted animals, including cats, trapped and removed from their yards, and that the homeowner in question is determined that whichever of our cats this is (it was Grey Cat back in April, though I always see Napoleon run from that direction when I call him - and he always comes running - Napoleon is a special cat), it be trapped and killed if necessary.

Why doesn't she just stomp her feet and shout Shoo! The officer doesn't know. The officer says, there are cat deterrent sprays and methods, and I tell the officer we will certainly pay for them if the neighbor applies them. I've a phone call into our Metro Ferals contact for advice. The officer says the phone represents a first complaint, not imminent trapping, but we should take this seriously. Any suggestions would be welcome (beyond slapping silly the bitch who called in the complaint - that's already occurred to me, quite swiftly in fact).

Frankie will sit within two feet of me, roll on his back, meow, and then run if I try to pet him. Grey Cat lets me pet her and hold her, though she doesn't yet have full confidence and still keeps her flee instinct tightly triggered. Napoleon - jeebus, I love that cat: he plays, he cuddles, he initiates conversations, he trusts us completely. We could probably bring him inside, thoroughly ruining his happy and terrific life and possibly thoroughly ruining our indoor cats' lives too.

Taken this morning, that's Grey Cat and Frankie, both of whom knocked at the door because it was time for breakfast:

 

Here's Fleabus, watching:

Here's the kicker: the bitch's family is trying to sell their house, wanna be out of the neighborhood within two months. Is it maturity or complicity that's kept me from confronting them? The law is a bitch.

UPDATE!

Photo taken literally two minutes ago, Napoleon and Grey Cat and Frankie on our back porch proving what nuisance wild animals they are.

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• Thankfully, this guy saves me the necessary effort (but wait, there's more: check out Whispers in comments).
• Another obamapostate.
• Now the flegging: Blogosphere 2.0, or, why all blegs are shetty and getting shettier (h/t).
• A generous philosophy of blegging.
• Poetry is not dead yet? No, but searching pathetically for pulses is lame.
• Terrific review of Seidel's collected. (sub rqrd)
• Daily Listening Assignment.

Updates later. Or not.

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AMERICAN

Frederick Seidel

My face had been sliced off
And lay there on the ground like a washcloth
With my testicles and penis
Next to it.

The car had Wyoming plates.
I'd been to Colorado but not Wyoming.
Which I gather is beautiful.
The other one I hadn't seen was Utah.

Someone had carefully cut under it and lifted it off,
I suppose to obliterate the identity,
Except had left it out in the open.
It looked like a latex glove but also someone's face.

She told me she had always loved me.
I was the happy ending of a fairy tale.
She would recognize my penis anywhere,
Even on the ground.

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Pay no attention to what the two ditzes or the ditzy chryon say, though it's apt metaphor for something: