Of Cats & Linguine
When MLK Day Means Something Other Than What It Should Mean
When MLK Day Means Something Other Than What It Should Mean
MLK Day is rightly accused of being a literal whitewash over his legacy and civil rights for all. A token holiday that allows dominant white culture to, the rest of the year, ignore everything he strove for (as if MLK Day means anything to some folk on even the appointed holiday—Texas, fr’instance, still officially celebrates “Confederate Heroes Day” January 19).
But I digress. There’s linguine to be had in this reflection.
Yes. LINGUINE.
And you thought the hideousness of Columbus Day was our country’s nod to Italian Culture at the expense of Native America. Geesh! Talk to my cats, and they’ll teach you a lesson.
4:39AM MST
I was sleeping. Was.
I’d gone to bed at 1:30AM, taking advantage of the sleeping-in a holiday affords. But I was way pasta my depth on this one.
My cats, you see, sadly translated MLK Day as “Manic Linguine Kittens Day.” And they got to the festivities post-haste.
Manic Linguine Kittens Day
Let me ‘splain.
They aren’t kittens anymore, but they do still give meth-addled ambulatory toddlers a run for their money in terms of mischief making.
‘’Cuz cats can get to things even glaze-eyed sugar-riddled children can’t.
And our cats had pillaged linguine.
Rewind. Pause. Replay.
Last Thursday night, I’d made a small portion of linguine over which I put my Italian-family-recipe red sauce. It’s what this Beeler does.
The remaining dry noodles stayed in their cellophane bag, which I sealed with a binder clip and placed in their normal storage spot underneath shelving on the kitchen counter. (In retrospect, not keeping our old vacuum sealer might’ve been a mistake. Might’ve been; these are cats we’re talking about.)
My cats have never bugged the opened or unopened pasta I’ve stashed there. And they didn’t on Thursday-Saturday nights, either. The missing piece of information is that Pam and I went on a Friday-through-Saturday getaway to the mountains (Ice Castles in Dillon, CO; highly recommend it). We came home Saturday evening to very affectionate, needy felines, whose demands we thought we had satisfied with profuse attention, scritches, bed-sleeps, etc.
These are cats, though. Which point we’d forgotten.
“This abandonment will not go unchecked!” they plotted.
However, they couldn’t piss in our shoes ’cuz those were safely inside closets. They had thus far not molested the fairy-garden planters we’d made (last weekend’s outing of note), but such were too obvious a target for the refined feline sensibility.
Woken from my slumber, I heard cats jumping onto something. A rustling sound. THUD, as said cats jumped back to the floor. The cycle repeated to the point that this Beeler (who resolutely hadn’t gotten out the warmth of the covers to answer the call of the potty) needed to investigate. I thought for sure I’d see a planter upended and soil strewn.
What I met when I flicked the light switch was linguine strewn from hell to breakfast across the kitchen floor.
Some Small Favors. One Small Irritant.
Fortunately, it wasn’t cooked linguine. Remember the meth-addled toddlers? Yeah, it looked like one of them orgasmed Pixie Stix across the continent.
Atop a counter was Frank, our orange Tabby, seated. He looked from the pasta to me as if to say, “I’m just as intrigued as you are.”
Big’uns, our big-bodied (well, dumptruck-bodied Tuxedo) strode the kitchen, murmuring “I saw it happen, and I didn’t believe it either. Pity this stuff isn’t immediately edible.”
Frank’s sister, Possum (pictured above) was nowhere to be seen. She’s the sneaky little bitch, kinda like a furry version of the female queen velociraptor from Jurassic Park. Except smaller, admittedly less dangerous, but nonetheless more irritating when she wants to be.
4:44AM MST
I cleaned up, tempering my chagrin with the comfort that it wasn’t cat urine in my favorite heels.
As I brought in the linguine sheaves, Possum turns the corner into the kitchen. “Hey, guys! Whatcha doin’? Oh, linguine! Wonder where this came from? Can I have some?”
The Fallout of Manic Linguine Kitten Day (Wee-Hours Version)
Luckily, the feline covert maneuver hadn’t woken Pam. Unluckily, I slept in (after making it to the bathroom), which meant Pam awoke this morning to a Bermuda-Triangle proportions mystery.
See, I thought I had retrieved and disposed of all the linguine. I thought it had just been Possum spilling it, with Frank and Big’uns admiring her skills.
But no. Possum’s skills were not to be underestimated as the below Facebook post relates.
There was linguine in the bedroom. And beyond.
This is Beeler MLK Day, signing off, and wishing you the freedom to welcome creatures of all shapes, colors, sizes, orientations, and identities … even when they scatter your linguine.❤
To learn more about my trans journey, check out my memoir, How to NOT Know You’re Trans, to be released Valentine’s Day 2020!
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