By Bobbie Glasheen
Believe it or not, I do have a good friend in Idyllwild. Occasionally, we engage in violent struggles of will. Then we threaten to meet up in back of Fairway and beat each other up. I would win, of course. I am taller. We do not fight over important things like racist or sexist issues. We go for the big stuff. Matters of barking dogs, barking husbands, weight-loss programs and the water district.
With advanced age, I have become increasingly scrappy. Just generally impatient and lacking compassion. I have read that hormonal imbalance can lead to moodiness. But can it lead to bloodshed and, ultimately, the big house? “Well Judge, I am low on estrogen and that is why I quartered him and hung his heart over the kitchen sink.”
Anyone know what I mean? Perhaps more protein. More exercise, I know, would help. But then out on the street I meet even more people to castigate. If I could catch that chickadee, I would have him for lunch ... raw.
Do it my way, John, or watch your tuchis. Oy.
Perhaps I could go to the zoo and rent an enclosure. There I would live out my days in a cage, snarling and spitting, and all the visitors would laugh and throw pennies. The big concern with this plan is feeding time.
What would the keeper feed me? Sticky Pecan Rolls from the Town Baker? Blue Pine Salad from Café Aroma? Or dry kernels of something unrecognizable.
Scotch this plan. In spite of a nasty disposition, I am a delicate flower. Kibble for dinner? Forget that.
Obviously, I will have to change. I do not believe that this grumpridden old devil has any choice. To that end, I will breath consciously, recite the Serenity Prayer, drink more water and all will be well. Just watch.
