A few hours after deciding not to give Lena the bad news on Wednesday, I am in the bathroom, checking on the tomato and sweetpea plants that are starting there –an annex to the larger space by the main window.
I look out the window, and what do I see? Who do I see?
PUSS! I can’t believe it!
PUSS! I say. PUSS, You’re alive, you’re here.
What I am feeling is nothing short of elation. And gratitude.
I rush outside to see the Prodigal Puss. (Fatted calves? Anything? Just name it!)
And what does Puss do? Looks at me askance, a wry, momentary
“rumors of my death have been much exaggerated” expression on his face.
He would deny it no doubt, but I know that look.
So, my friends: Puss is back, larger than life. Or at the very least, as large.
Now I’m going to have to find the right time to tell him….”Hey Puss…you know you’ve used up one of those lives with what you’ve put us all (or at least, me) through these last few days.”
Maybe I should wait. End of May, maybe. Sitting on the porch of a warm evening.
Yes, that would be a good time.
Can one say with any confidence that one’s worst pun of the year 2008 was uttered as early as April 18th?
And let’s be clear on this: the designation “worst pun” that we all use is a false-trope, a signal that we use to draw the attention of assembled company to our latest “too clever by half” piece of verbiage.
Which, I suppose, is …OK. It’s the false humility that we should try to…extirpate.