So, earlier today I was moseying down the street making my usual rounds. As I got in front of the Greenblatt’s house, the front door flew open and out shot Snowball, the fluffy white cat who lives there. Mrs. Greenblatt was at the front door yelling and shaking her fist and saying something about her floor, and what Snowball shouldn’t be doing on it. About 6 feet out the door and down the steps he stopped short and began grooming himself, letting her and anyone else who might be watching know that he was totally nonplussed about being chased out of the house. Nothing wrong here. After a while he wandered over to me and we hung out for a little while. I asked him what was going on, and he told me that there is a possum in the house. She must’ve wandered in earlier in the day when someone had left the door open. He had left her hiding under the bed in the master bedroom. There are little piles of possum poo in several locations already, and a puddle here and there. Snowball was getting blamed for this. I wished him well and moved along until I got to the Johnson’s place. The sun was shining on their front stoop, one of my favorite places to curl up and enjoy being myself. One of the particularly best aspects of that stoop was the opportunity to torment Pookie, the Johnson’s little white terrier-ish sort of dog who was given to shrill yapping and bouncing whenever I assumed my rightful position in the sunshine. Of course, he was inside with the storm door between us. I always made a point of acting as though I didn’t even know he was there, 3 feet away from me, shrieking in dog, “I’ll kill you, Get off my stoop!, I’ll kill you!” It was such a pleasure, and I thanked God once again, as we cats all do daily, for not having made me a dog. Even though it was February, it was quite a warm day. The birds were going crazy falling in love and making babies, singing their joyful songs. I dozed off, and at some point Pookie had lost interest in me and had wandered off probably to lick himself. Everybody has their little problems, but I could feel a troubled undertone in my world. People seem more angry than they used to. I’m not sure exactly why, but all was not well in Happy Meadows.I wonder if it has something to do with Donk.

In my last post I told you about “Donk” Donkle, that guy who bought the swamp and built this mansion on the last lot in the subdivision by the swamp. He had gotten mad about the grief that the homeowners association had given him when he bought his place, especially the huge archway at the end of the driveway with the word “DONK” in huge letters atop it. After much of a kerfuffle, he had moved the archway to the head of a new driveway on the old swamp property that wasn’t actually part of the subdivision. But he didn’t lose gracefully, and decided that he would run for president of the homeowners association. He told everybody that he wanted to make Happy Meadows great again. He wanted to convert it to a gated community to keep the riffraff out and protect the residents and their property. He also wanted to establish restrictions on only allowing certain real estate agents to transact business in the subdivision. He wanted to hire our own security guards. (When this homeowners thing got cranked up, it made me realize that I had not seen any campaign signs in a long time. Remember, I told you that there was this big fuss about a selection earlier in the winter. Normally I see all kinds of signs and bumper stickers with people supporting candidates. Nothing of the sort this year. There must not have been much interest in the selection until after it was over.) I’m pretty sure that he’ll get his way about being president of the homeowners association, because they usually have to beg somebody to take the job. I don’t think it’s going to have much effect on me and it probably won’t change anybody else’s life very much either. So, he’ll get his way, but it won’t make him happy. Nothing does. I know people like him. No matter how much money and fancy stuff they accumulate, and no matter how much praise they generate, they are never satisfied. All this grandiosity and arrogance is a cover-up for a greater sense of inadequacy. It’s like trying to fill a bottomless pit of need. You can buy a lot of friends but you can’t make anyone love you. Mike said that he’s not going to say anything to anyone but me, but he’s pretty sure that Mr. Donkle doesn’t even live in the subdivision because his house was built where the swamp was. Somebody else might bring it up if they want to challenge his authority on something if there is a controversy. It should be pretty funny.

Author: Black Magic

Black Magic is a handsome, charming, and self-absorbed cat who lives with Mike and Judy Gordon in Marietta, Georgia. He is about 7 years old, and he will remind you at every opportunity that his grandfather was Black Jack, that famous cat who wrote his own autobiography. Black Magic has a great many opinions, and despite his natural feline arrogance, he seems to be genuinely spiritual. But the reader can decide for him/herself.

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