Back To The Old Grind, I Mean Ground

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Kiss my grits.

     Today I have to whip up to Austin, gamble with my friends, sleep in the shed and haul home a bunch of books and cats.  Ain't I the lucky one!
     It looks like this time the sale of the land went through.  How nice.  I have reason to believe the lady buying it will turn it into a trailer park. How very, very nice.
     After nine years of living in Garfield, of trying to be the best neighbor I could, none of the people around me speak to me or even say hello.  I have done nothing to them except wave and help out when needed.  Because I did not marry the first obese woman that came along and have a bunch of be-earringed rap listening dickhead kids, as so many did and do, then that makes me fallon.  That and my loud music and bad attitude.  And I have cats!  What kinda man would have cats?  What kinda man don't have guns and a truck?  And that son of a bitch don't even listen to mainstream country.
     Here I come to spoil the day!



Thomas Johnathon Jackson, AKA Stonewall, AKA Stoney.  Poisoned.  Died in convulsions.



Kuato.  Disappeared on one of my trips to the coast.  Presumed poisoned, presumed dead.


Monster.  Put to sleep after ingesting Warfarin.

     These were deliberate murders and I think I know who did this.  I cannot prove anything, but circumstances were beyond coincidence.  All of these cats showed up hungry, skinny and loud.  All of them loved being petted and would not take no for an answer.  They meant the world to me.  There is no revenge but there is payback.  Since I cannot take direct action I have done my best to lower the quality of life for everyone tangent to my property.  A trailer nest in Garfield is a guaranteed source of crime and squalor.  Behind Monster is Mingo, my last surviving country cat.  He is currently battling a diarrhea that I have had him at the Vet's for, and he may have, maybe, have been poisoned also.  Coincidence is for God and small children.  All these cats mean more to me than ever so many neighbors, who I do not have to love and would trade the lot of them for even one kitty back alive and well.



And, of course, Phoebe, killed by a pack of pit bulls owned by river trash next door criminals.  At least I shotgunned one of her dogs, and it took him a very long time to die.


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