If I Only Had a Brain

Today's earworm brought to you courtesy of The Scarecrow:

I could while away the hours, conferrin' with the flowers
Consultin' with the rain.
And my head I'd be scratchin' while
my thoughts were busy hatchin'
If I only had a brain.

No idea why that popped into my head while I was driving home in the car.  Also, no idea why I became determined to capture the elusive cat known as Zebbie, to give him the combing he so desperately needed.  Zebadiah John Carter Rothfeld is an almost 15 year old, all white, blue-eyed male, congenitally deaf almost from birth.  He is so skittish, he will run from us even when we are trying to give him a treat.  Zeb is the only pet I have ever lived with who would not let me touch him.  If I was a cat psychologist (now there's a profession for me) I would have to diagnose him with paranoid catzophrenia.  Although he is a shorthair, he has some kind of thick undercoat that causes him to have big, honking knots in his fur.  After a couple of years of this, he really looks pretty raggy, so while Rob was at taekwando I managed to chase Zeb into my bathroom.  With the help of a pillowcase, I got him contained, and then combed.  And combed.  And combed.  If I say so myself, he is looking rather spiffy.  The weird thing is, although he cried a little at the beginning, he never tried to use his back claws or his teeth (Zebbie once spent 10 days in isolation at the vet because he bit the assistant who foolishly insisted on carrying him to the back) and after a little while, he settled down, curled up against me, and let me clean his eyes, and pet him.  The sad thing is that when he allowed me to pet him on his head, I found a rather large growth just outside one of his ears.  It did not seem to bother him, but it can't be a good sign. 

You've heard the expression "white on rice?"  This is white cat on a rice cooker.

Today is my Middle Brother-in-Law's birthday, and it is a special one since he is now eligible for Social Security, although this is a guy who has a black belt in taekwando and still owns and operates his own lawn care business, so I don't see him retiring in the near future.  It is also special  because later this year he will become a grandpa for the second time.  My Number One Niece the Lawyer and her husband the lawyer are expecting their first child, a girl, and now you also know what sideswiped me away from my dogged completion of the Cat's Paw Scarf.  I always stand ready to be sideswiped by good news.

Charles, Cory, and Robert at Casco Martial Arts

I guess this would be a good time to tell the story of how I became the Bear.  I realize I left Osama waiting for me at the Outer Ring of the Seventh Circle of Hell, but it will give him a chance to catch up with some of his old friends - Josef Stalin, Saddam Hussein, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Attila the Hun, the Ayatollah Khomeini, Vlad III of Romania, Lizzie Borden, Queen Mary I, Ilse Koch, Caligula, Mao-Tse Tung, and Andrew Jackson.

Way back in the last century, during my senior year at SUNY Stony Brook, Rob and I resumed the dating relationship we'd left off the year before.  One night, Rob came home after a date, and found this message written on the small blackboard his mother had hanging on her kitchen wall:

Robert - Keep your hands off Cindy Bear.  Signed, Yogi Bear

It was that simple.  Both of my brothers-in-law, as well as my husband, refer to me as "Bear."  If I was going to have a tombstone, which I am not, I would expect that in addition to my "proper" name, it would read "Brkexpat, the Bear.  Beloved wife, mother, auntie, cousin, friend, lawyer, cook, knitter, dog whisperer, cat wrangler, and rabid Orlando Magic Fan."

Happy birthday, Charles, and many, many more.   I wish you health and long life, and much happiness.