Cousin Harold had been rising early to sneak in some coffee, and go upstairs and sit at my desk while he’d peruse the internet.
Away from the troubles outside, the yowling cats and grim-faced neighbors, while his best friend FluffFluff lay snoring downstairs, Cousin Harold would expand his world.
It was on one such May morning that Cousin Harold was checking out various aspects of Facebook, where people added automatic comments to rack up points to no good end, that he came across a multitude of not photos of faces, but pictures of breasts, or bozos as Cousin Harold referred to them, all with a name.
The sweet song of the birds, the drone of lawnmowers in the background, coffee steaming on desk all faded as Cousin Harold slipped into a teenage trance.
“A lot of good this does me now,” he muttered to himself. He pondered offering up his own comment on the photos like ‘will never drown’, ‘what a pair of eyes,’ ‘great personalities,’ before he remembered FluffFluff would see what he’d done later and start scratching at the back of his neck like a demented bird pecking at his skull, and that there’d be no way he could avoid such minding.
Peck, peck. You know what that looks like. Peck, peck. People will think this or that. Peck, peck.
Cousin Harold gave up that thought and returned to the boobies. Oh well, he thought with a sneaking grin, it’s a crazy world.
He was just about to wipe his chin after staring when he heard one of the kitties meowing like it had its paw caught in the door.
Turns out the king of the nest of ne’er-do-wells, Turdburglar, had dragged his limping self back into the backyard after a few months of humping and biting every cat in sight, and peeing on anything not moving.
And those remaining were very afraid.
One second he’d be lazing in the sun softly murmuring the praise of his mother, Mrs. Moe, and the next he’d have jumped, humped and dumped another cat.
All they’d hear would be a soft whistling,’My name is Moe, meowwwww, That’s all I know, meowww, I’m a cat, meowwwwww, and that is that, meowwwww’ and next they’d be gasping for breath and wondering where the prowler had gone.
What technique, thought Cousin Harold.
He thought he’d better take a look in case it was something else, when he suddenly heard human muttering.
That doesn’t sound like FluffFluff. Slippers slapping, and Shirley Temple twittering to the fur faces.
The cats and their progeny had become fairly well known around the neighborhood, especially after one fellow, a few houses down, had remarked, “You didn’t do anything to the cats, did you? I don’t see any of them around.”
Cousin Harold had simply replied, “Hell no, the little bastards are all at our house, Mr.Bill.”
Cousin Harold was almost out of his chair when the words become clearer.. and with a definitively foreign accent.
And speaking to Mr.Spots, his favorite.
“Haw, Meester Spots, you nice kitty. You sit, I pet you, Mister Spots. Here you go, nice cookie. Tell you fortune.”
Cousin Harold thought what the fuck is that noise, and got up to stand over the balcony, very quietly.
The conversation continued.
“Haw, Mister Spots, how you like come for dinnah. Lots food. Mister Spots, you like go restaurant, nice kitty?”
Next thing Cousin Harold heard was a rushed hush of tinkling conversation that sounded like someone conjugating the alphabet backwards.
And then the patter of little feet beating a hurried retreat down the sidewalk.
A door opened downstairs, accompanied by the snap of a lighter, a swift exhale, and the exclamation of “Harold, don’t you gob on these kitties any more! Peegie looks like she’s wearing a coat of arms!”
FluffFluff.
Cousin Harold started to proclaim his innocence when he was interrupted by, “I know you did it! None of these babies climbed up on the rail and started doing it to each other.”
“I was only encouraging them to get off the porch and deposit their fleas elsewhere.”
“Harold! You need to stay off those sites and stop portraying yourself one way or another when you’re a really nice man, and the best looking one there too!”
“Ok, I will.”
“You need to not do that, anymore. Change your habits. Think of progress,” said FluffFluff.
“OK, I said I will.”
“I’m going to kick your ass if you do that and ruin all my hard work of turning you into an admirable human being… not that you weren’t before, but damnit, people are watching!”
“I said ok, you Chatty Cathy. Stop with the Helen Keller act, or you won’t need a hat and you won’t be able to sit down either.”
“Alright….(motherfucker)”
Cousin Harold let out a whiff of protest, went back to his desk, and decided he’d best ensure that no young twenty or thirty, ok even forty somethings, were not losing their way on the internet.
It was the least he could do, while awaiting the next pecking of FluffFluff at his neck,
Tap, tap, tapping at the back of his skull.
‘Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore.’
©Dean J. Baker
©Dean J. Baker, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. All material is covered by international intellectual property laws. All characters are the sole property of ©Dean J. Baker and have been so since 2005-2006. They may not be used in any form. Failure to comply with this will be taken as copyright infringement and plagiarism and acted upon with all and full legal means. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker with appropriate and specific direction to the original content, and the author is informed.
