You Must Be a Different Breed

We picked up this crummy street cat from a Beirut parking lot some four years ago because hubbie thought its ‘David Bowie’ eyes (he’s got one blue and one green eye) were interesting. Since then, all I ever get to see of this cat is a glimpse in the morning, when I enter the living room, and he retreats to his top drawer in an old desk in a room behind the kitchen. The cat (yes, he never even got a name) will sit in that drawer all day long, because he basically hates everybody’s guts, and will only come out at night, when the housekeeper has gone, the kids are in bed, and I am immobilized on the couch due to the laptop on my (hence the name) lap. He will come out, and sit on my husband’s lap. Hubbie is able to do just about anything with this cat, the evil creature is extremely docile with hubbie.

“See, I am excellent with animals, I can tame them all,” hubbie said tonight.

And after a while he added; “I wonder why I haven’t been able to tame you yet.” . . .

Some more silence.

“You must be a different breed.”

A tree grows in Beirut. Niceley wedged in a wall. "Don't litter here," the sign reads.