Fourth of July. Coolidge Day here in Beauneville, in honor of our thirtieth President. Also Independence Day.
Mrs. Smith put out a box of Coolidge Cakes from Cafe Venice. Coolidge Cakes are regular cupcakes, but with a small portrait of Calvin Coolidge drawn with icing. I don’t eat cakes, but they look artful.
Megan dropped in for breakfast. She brought her new weapon, a Glock 36 "Slimline.” It has an ultracompact frame and chambers a .45 ACP cartridge. She didn’t fire it or anything. Town ordinance. It’s illegal to discharge a weapon inside the town limits unless you’re shooting a burglar.
I went to see Dad. He did not look good. He was on the Fulbright’s front porch and didn’t get up when he saw me, which is unusual. His fur looked scruffy -- a bad sign because Dad is very meticulous about grooming.
We chatted awhile. He said he saw the vet yesterday, and the prognosis wasn’t good. Something with his kidneys. That can’t be right, he’s only seven. The vet must have mixed up the tests.
Mom’s organizing a vigil. Dad's friends and baby mamas will gather in the Fulbright’s hedge and offer a purring presence. I’m going after I finish this journal entry.
On the way back from Dad’s, I paused at Dorabella’s Bookstore for snacks. Dorabella is always good for snacks. I would have stayed longer, but Tina Snitwood was there, browsing teen fiction. Tina is a Sagittarius, the one sign I can’t abide, so I left.
Later in the afternoon, I met with Beauneville’s mouse king at a vacant lot on Birch Street. Tiresome ritual, really, the annual “mouse hunt.” Every year, on Coolidge Day, the local mice hand over one of their dead. Beauneville cats accept the dead mouse as a tribute and leave the corpse in some prominent place. That way, people think we’re doing our best to keep the mouse population in check, and it saves us the trouble of chasing the little fuckers. Win-win-win.
Why do people think cats like to eat mice? Mice suck as food. Hardly any meat, and what’s there is tough and gamey. I’ll take a nice warm dish of chicken livers over dead mouse any day.
Mouse King felt chatty, but I just wanted to get the damn thing over with. I made polite inquiries about the departed -- her name was Eunice, and she left 37 living pups. The moment Mouse King finished his prayer I grabbed Eunice by the neck and bounced. The less time spent with a dead mouse in my mouth, the better.
On the way home I passed Molly Bloom's house. She was practicing the 24th variation of the Diabelli, and still missing that note. Cutting through Zemlinsky’s yard, I spied Natasha in her studio. She stood before a mirror dressed in nothing but an ankle bracelet. She looked nice. Zaftig, but nice.
I dropped Eunice on the front porch and went inside through the cat door. Gargle, then naptime.
After dinner, Roderick and Molly left for the Bell Tower to watch the fireworks. I checked the porch. Nothing. It figures. When cats leave a trophy at the front door, the people are supposed to stuff it and keep it forever. They never do.
Well, I’m off for Dad’s vigil.
All for now.
