I don’t like to plan. I like to make lists. Then I forget my list or otherwise lose it and I end up winging the whole affair. Plans are worse. I start with good intentions, being a good soldier of the organized and prepared, then I find myself getting mired in the details, where a devil is rumored to live; my brain does somersaults over a bunch of unknown variables, I fall behind schedule before actually falling behind schedule. This, then, marks the end of the planning phase and it predictably transitions into the winging phase. Recognizing the doom that besets the willing in a pattern of historic repeatability, I said “fuck this” a long time ago and embraced my inner shooting-from-the-hip gunslinger of half-baked ideas. Besides, where is the fun in following a meticulously researched itinerary? That’s like being at work. Screw that. No adventure to be found in the overly managed lifestyle. Hence, I have a tendency to get derailed and end up looking like the flaky, unreliable sort.
As to why my next article is late? Where to begin? Ah, riding > writing. In other words, I procrastinated writing my next piece in this re-emergence trilogy of mine and went riding the rocket instead of writing about riding the rocket. Come Monday, I’m on a tight schedule, but I am prepared to knock it out of the park nonetheless. Prepared with a touch of trepidation. As I sip coffee sitting on my front stoop enjoying the mid-morning sun of late summer (fuck, it’s hot as hell already!), pondering random words made into sentences and those then turned laboriously into somewhat sensical paragraphs a 5th grader should be able to follow, my rescue comes in form of a phone call from Athens. The Wing Woman has found a newborn kitten in the bushes in front of her office building. By the time I got my crap done, packed the bike and am geared up to ride the 90 miles like a hellion to her house, the kitten count has gone from one to three. I am coronated surrogate queen, one nipple (teat) short of knowing what to do. We are both clueless, but we pull it off. The feeding schedule is rough: every two hours. It takes roughly 30 minutes to get through the whole kitten gang, then cleanup and prep; by the time you drift off to sweet sleep the alarm wakes your tired ass up again, not that you were really asleep yet anyway. By the second full day of playing queen mother of feline angels to three fluffy furballs that weigh a little over 160g per helpless purr, it’s like Zombieville around here.
They are now 22 days old. We are on Day 10 of being responsible of meeting their every need. The feeding schedule has relaxed to four-hour intervals with playtime and socialization in between. Their development is an amazing journey to witness. Every day they are a little bigger. Every day they are a little more able. Every day their personality is a little bit more unique. Every day we discover they have learned something new about being mini-cats.
The queen has been summoned. She must prepare her milk for her teeny charges… I leave you, then, with some adorable kitty porn. Caution: Cuteness Overload.
And now you know what happened here. We haven’t ridden a motorbike in so long, the battery in Wing Woman’s Viffer died a slow and lonely death sitting neglected in her garage. She was so desperate, she rode her DRZ to the limiter on new knobbies doing 80mph (as far as I could tell) on the tarmac. After all that abuse, it tried to die on her, too. Mine still runs, but I have forgotten how to ride…