flanier
2012-08-09 08:35:33 UTC
Night times for some of us elderly folk have become a chore. I mean,
you have to get up the stairs to the bedroom, undress , get into your
Doctor Dentons for the evening sleep...no more of that nekkid
stuff...then somehow heft yourself into the bed which has become a bit
too high. If you weren't so cheap you buy a futon so you could just
sag into bed. But that's not all.... Restless Leg Syndrome.
Each evening before bed, one is forced to go for a walk around the
neighborhood else any attempt to go to sleep is doomed to defeat as
the legs jiggle about like an extra in Riverdance. This exercise - I
must point out - is by no means an attempt to stalk the streets of Ajo
(officially kinky sex capital of mid Arizona if you are to believe a
recent survey based on credit card receipts found in several recycling
bins) for glimpses of naked people through upstairs windows, a view
sadly not shared by the local constabulary, magistrates and upset
naked people.
Be that as it may, every night at around 11pm, just as your average
Ajo resident is standing proud and in a state of undress in their
bedroom window, I must pound the pavements to rid this impossible-to-
scratch itch in the knees and the urge to dance, dance, dance like a
mad, insane Fred Astaire that takes over the feet.
So, it was as I stepped out one clear evening, the full blue moon high
in the sky, and my eyes below first floor level, as per the court
order, that I caught movement in nearby oleanders. My evening forays
have brought me closer to the night time fauna - the hoot of an owl,
the scampering of a fox, burrowing of field mice. Movement in the
oleanders can be any number of things. A gust of wind, a drunk after a
night exercising his drinking muscles down at El Pedregal, or fast
spiky death eyeing my throat like a fat kid eyes the last piece of
cold pizza in the fridge.
A cat. An absolutely massive black cat, eyes glinting orange in the
street lights, a fearsome growl that I felt all the way to the bottom
of my spine. Three, four, no - five feet high, menace seeping from
every hair on its black, black body. The creature turns its head to
face me and my blood runs cold at what is surely some sort of panther,
out on the town for fresh meat. And - at the present moment, the only
meat - fresh or otherwise - on this particular street in Ajo is me.
Remembering my classics (Night of the Iquana, Jurassic Park, Jurassic
Park II and Jurassic Park III), I freeze. If I do not move, surely the
huge animal cannot see me. Unfortunately, this good work is completely
undone by my involuntary ejaculation of the words "Nice kitty," which
- as final words go - are a pretty poor choice. (In fact, my last
words in this instance are more likely to be "AAAAAAAARGH!")
And then... It moved. It moved, one step, two steps towards me, my
mouth dry, my bowels turned to mousse, my usually hyperactive legs
glued to the pavement, my body frozen in fear.
And then... Everything snapped back into perspective. The fearsome
beast stepped out of the shadows and into the truth of the street
lights and revealed its true form. Its true form as Next Door's Cat
That Looks Like Hitler, a nervous little thing with an uncanny
resemblance to the late Fuhrer, its hideous growl being mews of
appreciation for the meat products that the woman upstairs routinely
throws out of her kitchen window into our front yard.
Tonight's special: Half a Meat Loaf Slice. Mmmm.... tasty.
"Nice kitty."
It fled. So did I.
The Ajo Panther is real. It's just rather smaller, cuter and Nazier
than expected.
you have to get up the stairs to the bedroom, undress , get into your
Doctor Dentons for the evening sleep...no more of that nekkid
stuff...then somehow heft yourself into the bed which has become a bit
too high. If you weren't so cheap you buy a futon so you could just
sag into bed. But that's not all.... Restless Leg Syndrome.
Each evening before bed, one is forced to go for a walk around the
neighborhood else any attempt to go to sleep is doomed to defeat as
the legs jiggle about like an extra in Riverdance. This exercise - I
must point out - is by no means an attempt to stalk the streets of Ajo
(officially kinky sex capital of mid Arizona if you are to believe a
recent survey based on credit card receipts found in several recycling
bins) for glimpses of naked people through upstairs windows, a view
sadly not shared by the local constabulary, magistrates and upset
naked people.
Be that as it may, every night at around 11pm, just as your average
Ajo resident is standing proud and in a state of undress in their
bedroom window, I must pound the pavements to rid this impossible-to-
scratch itch in the knees and the urge to dance, dance, dance like a
mad, insane Fred Astaire that takes over the feet.
So, it was as I stepped out one clear evening, the full blue moon high
in the sky, and my eyes below first floor level, as per the court
order, that I caught movement in nearby oleanders. My evening forays
have brought me closer to the night time fauna - the hoot of an owl,
the scampering of a fox, burrowing of field mice. Movement in the
oleanders can be any number of things. A gust of wind, a drunk after a
night exercising his drinking muscles down at El Pedregal, or fast
spiky death eyeing my throat like a fat kid eyes the last piece of
cold pizza in the fridge.
A cat. An absolutely massive black cat, eyes glinting orange in the
street lights, a fearsome growl that I felt all the way to the bottom
of my spine. Three, four, no - five feet high, menace seeping from
every hair on its black, black body. The creature turns its head to
face me and my blood runs cold at what is surely some sort of panther,
out on the town for fresh meat. And - at the present moment, the only
meat - fresh or otherwise - on this particular street in Ajo is me.
Remembering my classics (Night of the Iquana, Jurassic Park, Jurassic
Park II and Jurassic Park III), I freeze. If I do not move, surely the
huge animal cannot see me. Unfortunately, this good work is completely
undone by my involuntary ejaculation of the words "Nice kitty," which
- as final words go - are a pretty poor choice. (In fact, my last
words in this instance are more likely to be "AAAAAAAARGH!")
And then... It moved. It moved, one step, two steps towards me, my
mouth dry, my bowels turned to mousse, my usually hyperactive legs
glued to the pavement, my body frozen in fear.
And then... Everything snapped back into perspective. The fearsome
beast stepped out of the shadows and into the truth of the street
lights and revealed its true form. Its true form as Next Door's Cat
That Looks Like Hitler, a nervous little thing with an uncanny
resemblance to the late Fuhrer, its hideous growl being mews of
appreciation for the meat products that the woman upstairs routinely
throws out of her kitchen window into our front yard.
Tonight's special: Half a Meat Loaf Slice. Mmmm.... tasty.
"Nice kitty."
It fled. So did I.
The Ajo Panther is real. It's just rather smaller, cuter and Nazier
than expected.