Marmota monax

Why do we have to be plagued by our useless primitive instincts and biology? I speak today, of course, of that intense autumn urge to become the biggest fatty you can be to get through a cold, lean winter.

I observe the groundhogs/woodchucks/ground squirrels/marmots/whistle pigs with a ridiculously envious eye.

Their endless days of feasting and growing extra curvaceous are never met with feelings of guilt over being, well, undesirably fat. They're supposed to be fat to survive what is to them a time of famine. If you're a comfortably living American, any sudden autumnal gravitation to foods which are extremely heavy and fattening seems a wasteful effort on the part of some distantly past version of ourselves.

I feel that the distantly past version of myself, we'll call it my inner groundhog, has a particularly loud voice. The moment i take notice of any tree with turning leaves or how the air takes on that crisp, threat-of-chill scent and feel, a sudden switch is flipped in the appetite control center of my brain. I must go find something to eat....and it must be bad for me....buttery, greasy, rich, dense, filling.....and the more often i find and eat foods with some of these descriptors, the better. Following this, i should find a nice soft, warm place to curl up and sleep.

It doesn't help my situation that the distantly past version of myself really likes sugary sweet num nums all the year around as well.

Fortunately for me, i know my inner groundhog is the father of lies. I know i will not die of starvation if i don't become a fatty in time for winter. I know it's untrue that sweet things should always be eaten when found because they are a rare treat in nature. Yes, armed with this knowledge, i have avoided being Jerry Springer show contestant obese, which would surely happen if i listened to my internal fuzzy friend.

It's a little sad to think that human progress has separated me from my inner groundhog. I don't need it anymore; in fact i would be better off without it now. A typical modern human, i shamefully spit on Nature's well intentioned gifts - an annoyingly persistent monthly period, unsightly body hair, wide, curvaceous birthin' hips which most fashion designers refuse to accommodate, and of course, the groundhog. I appreciate the gesture, Nature, but most of your contributions are outdated. Come back after modern society has been wiped out by a nuclear apocalypse and then we'll put those gifts to good use.

I digress.

To one degree or another, we all succumb to our inner groundhogs' cries at the onset of autumn. Menus often transform in the Fall, reflecting the rich, hearty, filling, heavy comfort foods that the inner groundhog demands. Case in point: Thanksgiving dinner.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy comfort food as much as the next guy. It's not entirely the groundhog's fault that i indulge here and there. And to be honest, the life of a groundhog seems rather peaceful and idyllic: grazing all day, fattening up, sleeping through the nasty winter, always doing exactly what Nature intended. For now, i must be at odds with my inner groundhog, but...perhaps in a future life?

Until then, i must go hit the gym.

Pussy Dolor

The chief culprit, Shasti, below



Right. So, i am super delighted that my two fat house cats are loving the extra apartment space since we recently moved to Philly, and it's really great that they are finally exercising their chubster bodies, but J.F. Christ, man, why do they feel the need to go thundering around from one end of the apartment to the other between the hours of 3:00 and 5:00 every god damn morning? It is like the fucking Cat Grand Prix. It is damn noisy. They do 180 degree turns mid-sprint which involve sticking their claws into the wood floors and whirling around, scraping and raking across the floor the whole while, and then they accelerate by cartoonishly scrabbling in place until their claws gain traction, allowing them to noisily tear off once again. Occasionally they enjoy bouncing off the bed and/or my body for good measure.

And this latest development in my cats' nocturnal behavior is adding to an already extant list of feline-related late night racket. My beloved cat Shasti is inclined to knock objects off of tabletops and to caterwaul in the dead of night. You know those old Looney Tunes where a cat is singing on a fence and someone throws a boot at it to shut it up? Shasti is that cat. She meows extremely loudly at the top of her voice which, unfortunately, is surprisingly loud for an animal her size. Even more disconcerting is the fact that her screams are not unlike that of a wailing demon baby and they can take on the sound of english words, most notably, "hello," or more like "herrrooooo???" It is pretty awful. I mean, shit, if i wanted to wake up at ungodly hours of the morning, i would have given birth to a humanoid or taken a job at a bread bakery.

Shut the bedroom door, you suggest? Oh, you fool. Shasti hates a closed door. She will scrape and claw and moan at that door until you open it. Totally not an option. For now i am going to employ a slightly propped open bedroom door technique, which will hopefully slow the momentum of the charging little beasts. As for Shasti's caterwauling, i am fairly certain this behavior is triggored by toy mice and other items that she thinks she has "killed" and therefore must announce as a trophy. You see, house cats are simple creatures who are slaves to their often useless, vestigial instincts. One must dumb oneself down and imagine a life of acting on the meaningless whims of primitive instincts in order to get inside the "mind" of a cat. My solution for Shasti is to remove her "kill" from the premises.

Incidentally, my husband has just informed me that the BBC reported this morning on studies which reveal that certain cat vocalizations are similar in frequency to that of a human baby's. Fucking fantastic. My cats are lucky they are cute and that i am a vegetarian.