THE FAMILY

I got new neighbors. An entire family moved in last week; a rough and tumble, tight knit crew from the looks of it, and just in time to dispel the rumor that the neighborhood is going to the dogs.

They got strange names, these new folk. Tony the tiger. Willie the whiskers. Tabby two toes. The calico kid.

Word is they are hustling kitty crack. I didn’t believe it until I found several catnip plants growing among the tomato’s in their backyard. That, coupled with the late night stereophonic screams emanating from the Hydrangea bushes confirms my suspicions.

Susie Miller, the precocious, pubescent daughter of Marge and Andy Miller, is missing her hamster, Fred. I fear Fred is sleeping with the fishes. I do not doubt these new neighbors of mine are whacking rodents. It’s what they do.

FLIGHT OF THE CONCHORDS

I CAN’T AFFORD NOT TO GO TO JAIL

I read that it cost taxpayers $1,000 a day to keep Paris Hilton in prison. But what amazes me is that taxpayers pay $100.00 a day to care for ordinary inmates.

I figure my expenses come to $25.00 a day, and that includes what I spend on Spaz. I don’t live high on the hog, but there is ham in my frig and I have cable, and I’m on the internet. I stay warm in the winter and cool in the summer. I also spend $3.00 a day on gas, an expense I’m sure the inmate need not incur.

So, what the hell does an inmate need? A cell. Three meals a day. Toiletries. I mean, how much can an orange jumpsuit cost?

PHOTOGRAPHY IS FOR THE BIRDS

I could smack Alfred Hitchcock for empowering feathered missiles. Last week I was almost gobbled by a turkey and I took a direct hit from a Mockingbird. I’m use to being mocked, but by a bird?

I was sitting on the couch watching the Paris Hilton show when I noticed a flock of turkeys in the back yard. I grabbed my camera and snuck around the side of the house. Seven hens, a couple of gobblers, and a whole passel of pouts’ were feeding on grasshoppers. I snapped a shot just as they spotted me. The turkeys scattered as I advanced the film.
Thirty minutes later, a hen and a jake cautiously made their way back into the yard. The hen spotted me and began to putt. The jake turned to flee. Hoping to ease his fear, I gobbled. Now, either I’m a champion turkey caller, or that jake was as dumb as a conch. He ruffled himself up and gobbled back before charging me. I’m not afraid of a bird but I suddenly remembered I’d left a pot of pasta simmering on the stove, so I went back in the house. Nothing worse than overcooked spaghetti.

A couple of days later I found a mockingbird’s nest tucked in a privet shrub. In order to get a good shot, I stood on a cinderblock, held back some branches with one hand, and snapped a picture. One of the fledglings gapped its beak thinking momma was going to feed her. But momma was busy. Just as I snapped the picture she dive-bombed my head, knocking me off the cinderblock. She circled to make another pass. I would have stood my ground, after all, a mockingbird is much smaller than a turkey, but I could hear the phone ringing so I ran inside. Turned out to be a telemarketer soliciting donations to the Wild Bird Fund.