It's been a nonstop party at our place. Crim's spinning "Signed Sealed Delivered," the chickens are squawking over the passage of Prop 2 and I'm formatting everyday chitchat into Obamaspeak. (On finally pruning the lemon trees: They said this day would never come.)
But one member of the household is in post-election doldrums. After his long journey from Log Cabin Republicanism to full-purr embrace of Obama, the big victory Tuesday was marred for poor Paulie Walnuts by that indignity called Prop 8.
A few days ago, he looked up at me and heartbreakingly asked:
How long would it take to walk to West Hollywood?
For a pudgy kitty with a lingering limp from two broken legs, a long time indeed. But he wanted to march. All his Facebook friends from down south were going to be there. He started working on a little sign: 'Tomcats 4 Tomcats: Don't Dog Our Love.' (He's never been in a serious relationship, but this was hardly the time to point that out.)
What about to the Castro?
It would still be too much, I told him. He just recently used up one of his lives, I reminded. Still, I understood his hunger for a pilgrimage. (He also declared himself hungry for tooney, but I wasn't going to let him get away with leveraging his oppression in a bid to be spoiled.)
We talked about it. I told him I understood his pain and was proud of his passion. But I urged him not to feel beaten down. The inevitable march of progress is on your side, Walnuts.
This seemed to help and he decided to take a nap by the front window, beside his new sign: 'HONK if I'm CUTE enough to deserve CIVIL RIGHTS.' It was a frequently disrupted snooze.
1 comment :
Weirdest. Post. Ever.
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