Hello.

Some of you may be thinking, "What's that supposed to mean?" or "Where the hell is this going?" Those people need help. So anyway, I thought I should mention that I don't butcher cats.

That may require more explanation. Yesterday's Thought for the Day was intended as a new take on an old saying by adding an extra moral dimension about the significance of ill-considered consequences. However, it may have come across as as though I had empirical evidence as a result of personal experience. This is not the case. I have never killed a cat. Well, that's not entirely true but growing up on a farm means having to do some stuff that city kids do by choice. The hardest job on a farm is having to kill animals. I hated doing it but its part of that life. I live in the 'burbs now. Not much call for killin' in the 'burbs. At least, not until the revolution comes and then those body corporate bastards will be the first against the wall.

Ok, political ramblings aside, today's blog is not about killing or revolutions or cats. Though I probably should do a blog about cats, as I have much to say about our feline overlords. This is probably the only safe forum to criticise them as cats aren't fond of the Internet. I wonder what they would think if they knew the pointing device we all use is called a mouse. I guess it hasn't clicked for them yet. Yes, that was a joke and I am laughing at my own joke.

I'm back now. Where was I? Nowhere. That's right. So I was watching Little Man trying to catch a fly with a spoon the other day and it reminded me of when I was little, and had my own spoon. Little Man has lots of spoons but we didn't have much money so we shared our spoons. There were thirteen of us and only twelve spoons so meal times were like musical chairs, only with spoons and you weren't supposed to sit on them. But Little Man has so many spoons he could sit on them if he liked. Not that we encourage that. My point is that even if he did, he'd have more spoons. He'd have spoons coming out his... well, he has a lot of spoons. And he didn't catch the fly. Which is what this is about.

Little boys killing little animals like flies and ants and spiders and so on. They don't realise what it is they are doing. When I was little I didn't have a pet of my own, despite the large number of wild cats and several farm dogs around the place. It seemed to me that seeing as there were so many flies about, no one would mind if I kept one as a pet. We had millions of flies, but it still took me some time to catch one, as I had to wait for my turn with the spoon. Needless to say, it flew away at the first opportunity but I found him again. I'm pretty sure it was the same one, though they do look a lot alike.

Anyway, using my little boy reasoning, I deduced that pulling the wings off would prevent it from escaping. It didn't. In fact, the little buggers can move about quite quickly on six legs. Anyway, having accidentally squashed my pet fly as it tried to run away, I found a suitable replacement. I called him Little Fly the Second. Having made the necessary adjustments, including reducing the leg count to four, making my pet exactly like a miniature dog, I found a suitable jar to put him in. I tried to find something for Little Fly the second to eat but to no avail. Two days later he was dead in the jar, floating in the milk and soggy dog biscuits.

It was a long time before I had another pet. It is a real dog, so it didn't need adjusting, though I did have her spayed. She is getting on in years now, having reached the fine old age of 15 - in human years. Apparently dogs come from another planet, probably circling the Dog Star, which has an oscillitory period much shorter than Earth's around the Sun. In Dog years, my dog is around 85. I think I should write a blog about my dog soon. She would like that, not that she uses the Internet much these days.

Ciao!

Though for the Day: A day without thought is like a day without rain. Dry.