What I don’t like—and what I do

Maybe you’ll read this. Maybe you won’t.
If you do, and you’re the one who ventured uninvited onto my country property with a cat in a pet carrier and dumped off the cat here, you are a loser.
And no, you don’t get Brownie points for buying a brand new bag of cat food, ripping it open, and leaving it for the cat you didn’t want.
Yes, I live on an old farm. Yes, I have an old red barn. But I’m pretty sure there’s not a sign that you can see from the road—some 500 feet away—that reads, “If you don’t like your pet, you can drop it off here and it’ll be looked after.”
The fact that you had the gonads to step foot here without permission, and to shed your responsibilities as a pet owner, is deplorable.
I guess that infrared-capable security camera I installed outside in the yard was a very good idea. See you around.
And by the way, your cat is nowhere to be found. Maybe it’s on a journey back to you because I’m pretty sure it figured out right away that this wasn’t home.
I sold the pet carrier and my own cats are enjoying the cat food very much. Thank you for buying the groceries.
And while I’m on the topic of responsibility, I suppose I should stuff a bit of humour into this rant so that things stay balanced. Goodness knows I could go on and on about pet owners who wriggle out, shirk, and dodge accountability.
Frankly, I’ve had enough of that.
I just ate two big chunks of Nanaimo bar I had bought at the grocery store and my poor little tummy is swollen and fighting with whatever artificial ingredients were in that thing. But oh my, it was good.
My favourite co-worker—the one who is an imp and can fit into size one jeans even after she eats for 10—indeed will have something to say about my dietary digression when she reads this.
Those five bucks I inadvertently “owe” her for switching days off with me might have to be doubled in order to keep her criticism of my wolfing to a dull roar around the office.
Then again, maybe she won’t read this and I can go on to say that consuming more food in the fall season must be a genetic throwback to my caveman days because as soon as the temperature begins to dip, I have calorie-laden foods on my brain.
I walked into the grocery store at 5:30 p.m. on Monday dragging my knuckles on the floor and salivating as wonderful smells overtook me from the bakery shelf, forcing me to go right past the desserts with one hand outstretched and scooping whatever I could get into my shopping basket.
Temporary rationale set in as I scooted by the meat department and picked out a healthy little pork chop. And again when I cased the broccoli and threw a crown or two in—all the while careful not to crush the little heap of desserts that covered the bottom of the basket.
And it wasn’t like I needed to buy any sweets. My captain had hidden a half-bag of chocolate “Dove Promises” in my handbag a few nights ago and they would have provided me with all the satisfaction I could ask for, including some really great and wise quotes on the inside of each wrapper.
It says on the bag that I can eat seven of the little devils before I reach 220 calories. Hmmm. Perhaps I should pare it down a little and eat only three.
I unwrapped the first of the trio and read the quote.
“There’s a time for compromise. It’s called ‘later.’”
I reached in and grabbed four more. Seven it is.

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