Accidental techie

You may not have picked up on this yet, but I was adopted into a French household. The first thing she did was change my name from Wawona to Percival (spelled Perceval as far as they’re concerned) and voila, I was French. This may seem trivial, and I’m still working on the whole bilingual thing, but boy, do I fit right in! I dig raw meat, raw cheese; I feast on the bread left out on the counter, and spit it out in disgust if it’s not Parisian style baguette. I practice soccer in the back yard with special attention to head-butting the bench, my very own Matterazzi. The hardest part for me – and you’ll undoubtedly agree that this is pivotal in passing as French – is learning to complain.
I am possibly the most enthusiastic being you have come across (I was, after all, born in California). Whether it be going out for a walk, coming back home, getting to cuddle on the couch with her, absolutely everything deserves to be celebrated. But since I know it makes her proud, whenever I notice the slightest signs of injustice, I let my voice be heard, I take it to the streets! Well, maybe not the streets, she doesn’t really let me out there on my own, but I certainly take it out to the living room.
I don’t know if it’s the French influences kicking in, or if I’m really being shortchanged, but lately, I’ve noticed something just isn’t right. You’d think, as an only child, I would be the center of attention. Think again. I am constantly competing with screens! Sure, she takes me to the office with her, they all take regular breaks to come play, cuddle, or smoke cigarettes with me, but between breaks, when they are “working” on youtube, I have to resort to sitting on their laptops to establish my presence.
Our morning walks used to bring us closer, trudging up the hill to a breathtaking view of the city…or the fog. We would exchange conniving looks before faking each other out in touch football. Sometimes, she would sit down and lovingly watch me as I wrestled with a new friend. Last week, she put some weird things over her ears and didn’t bother to share her hilarity…Well, I happen to have excellent hearing, and do not find it amusing that we are not on speaking terms with Zapatero.
When she sits on the couch, I can usually pull off a cute pause to distract her from the TV and convince her to indulge in my very own péché mignon: Tug of War, but last time, she was laughing…that same laugh – a mixture of disbelief and hope. I was pouting in a corner, but something about lipstick being the sole differential between me and the vice-presidential candidate…please. She can see Russia from her house! All I see from my house is fog, or on a lucky day, a hill that I’m not climbing because someone is playing scrabble, checking her e mail, or catching up on politics on that stupid laptop.
Remember how I said I took things to the streets/ living room? Well, I tried. One day, she came back from a 3 day trip, I threw her the regular over enthusiastic party, and what did she do? She checked her e mail, and headed straight for the hot tub (don’t even get me started on the hot tub). I was furious! Furious, humiliated, although still happy as ever to have her home; I had to find another culprit – I don’t know how to hold a grudge against her. Well, while she wasn’t looking, the laptop and I had a little heart to heart. All I can say is that there was biting involved and I let that laptop have it! Then she came out of the hot tub, and, well, frankly, I’d rather not talk about it.
She uses this ringing device to talk to her family. The slightest sound and she’s on it. It’s all in French, and as I’ve said, I’m working on the bilingual thing. I’m not sure how this works, but I usually end up staying home while she’s out having fun. I figured, if I can work that ringing device, I might have some fun of my own. One morning, while she was in her shower, it rang, and I tried to answer. I’m not sure why, but every time I try to explore my inner techie, I end up in the doghouse.

Morning news

I wake up, drunk with sleep, my teeth clenched on the reality of my last dream. Stretch out, yawn, stretch up, yawn louder. It’s morning, but still too early. The sun hasn’t hit my bed yet. I let myself fall back on my comforter with a loud sigh. I’m awake, but confident that I can get a little more sleep before it all begins.
The first cars are leaving the streets. The stray cat is picking himself up off my front stoop. I make out the front page of the paper through the window: some farfetched explanation of the recent crime wave; they seem to think we need more of those loud cars –I think we could all use more wrestling practice. I stretch out some more and return to the land of golden fields, endless beaches and wrestling.
It’s trash day, my morning sleep is interrupted once more. The man steps right up to my house, grabs the three bins and returns them to the right house…fascinating! A few more cars leave. There goes the Prius…I have time. The sun is right on my bed now, its rays stroking me with their warmth. I stretch out again. The house is completely still.
My dreams take me to afternoon fun with my friends, running, playing ball, WRESTLING…did I mention I’m into wrestling? Voices slowly rise from downstairs. I am fully alert. It’s a sure sign that it’s almost time. The radio is blaring about last night’s catastrophes. I try to ignore the seriousness of it all. I find it depressing to wake up to the news. Her alarm is always set to the radio, except when it’s the pledge drive and she switches to the instant gratification of the cell phone. I like pledge drive weeks.
The house is still completely silent, but for this morning’s traffic report. I take my cue and rush to the bathroom before it’s too late. I check over the house, the yard, everything looks fine. I’m ready. I slip back into bed for a last date with the sun. The radio has moved on to foreign affairs, I can’t quite make out which country we’re geared to declare war on next – sounded like Russia, but even I know better, maybe it’s a retrospective. The street is strangely still; empty, really, except for the woman in her three wheeled car leaving yet another note on our car. She makes me nervous.
I think it’s time as I try to guess which one I need to greet first this morning… Downstairs sounds promising; I can hear the sheets ruffling; the twisting and turning. I jump out of bed, make my way down the cold metal stairs, and revert to daydreaming on the couch.
The wait is killing me. She always takes her sweet time waking up, taunting me with the hope that the radio will have the expected effect on her. It’s morning, there’s adventures to go on, new people to meet, new scents to smell, wrestling practice. How can she possibly sleep through Wall Street’s plunge, the car bombs and the five-car accident on the Bay Bridge.
If they would just move on to the elections, I would stand a chance! She always stirs when she hears their names, although it’s hit or miss as to the mood she’ll wake in.
Maybe if I show myself she’ll get a clue. I lay down on the cold wood floor by her bed, scratching myself vigorously…sometimes that works. She moans, but has not yet made eye contact, and the weather is about to come on: the results could be devastating.
I lay still while I am told that today will be foggy – they call that news? I’m in for a wait. She doesn’t like to get up when it’s foggy.
I dart upstairs, still hoping that the other one might wake up – no sign of life. I sneak in a few bites of breakfast on the run. I grab the comic books strewn on the kitchen table and proceed to devour them in bed…how decadent! My ears perk up when I hear her reach for her glasses.
I’m at her side in a heartbeat, dancing furiously for attention; when I see her foot collide with my head, it’s too late, I let out a muffled cry. I look up, perturbed. She has her laptop, she is frantically searching, something big must have happened. She distractedly comforts me, knowing it’s already forgiven.
I sulkily retreat to my comic books. I’ve mustered as much hatred as I can against that laptop, so I let myself slowly sink into a deep sleep…
I wake up, drunk with sleep, my teeth clenched on the reality of my last dream. Stretch out, yawn, stretch up, yawn louder. It’s morning. And she’s up, and she’s showered, and she’s got my leash, and I greet her as if this were my first morning because I know that while she’s got 40 plus days till election day, I’m 5 minutes away from wrestling.

Cold war

This is my yard. I run the place. I know every leaf, every blade of grass by scent. It’s where I do my morning rounds, afternoon naps and evening digging. I keep the fly population down, make sure I water a different area every couple of hours; I switch around the decomposing branches – my own personal recipe for compost. I keep the birds at bay so the fruit may ripen. Can’t you tell? It’s my yard!
You think you can waltz in and make it your own? You’re carefully luring the birds back in. You’ve taken to sculpting the bark of my beloved trees. You’ve claimed MY napping spot, right in the middle of the deck where the sun strokes me for hours and the branches sway, ever so gently rocking me to sleep. You think because you stay out all night on the toasty hot tub, you can just waltz in here and you own the place?
This is my yard. I will take it back from you. Even if it means leaving smelly booby traps that I will step in myself, switching to hourly rounds to cover your marks; napping long after the sun is gone and I am cold, and I am now scared of the not so gently swaying branches. This is my yard
And no, I will not say uncle, so you might as well pack up your mice, your birds and your kit -…What?
You want to stay?! You like your new bed. You appreciate how I pre dig the dirt for you. It’s a safe neighborhood for the kids, you’re right. I agree, those magnolia petals do echo the red in your fur, but – no, no, it’s nothing personal…it’s just that, well,
you want to stay…
And this is my yard.
And you think you can just waltz in here.
I’ve tried the peaceful approach: we had a summit about my feelings – you scoffed at me. I moved on to economic sanctions, eating the food those crazy humans leave out for you… you, you just invited yourself to my bowl! You’ve taken this “peaceful occupation” thing just one step too far – you leave me no choice: this is my yard…but,
I’m not sure how I feel about pouncing on you just yet. I was raised a pacifist. You’re obviously a hedonist. Surely you don’t want to revert to being cats and dogs!? I’m really not sure how I feel about pouncing…maybe we haven’t quite exhausted all diplomatic solutions.
I hope you don’t mind if I try bonding over bird watching from a distance; or if I intrude on your napping to take care of my oh so pressing business. Maybe if I join you on the bench, we can have a go at peaceful coexistence and drop the whole not so graduated response so I can get out of the cold. I hope you don’t mind,
because at this point, I’m not sure I can bring myself to pounce on you.

See, tiny baby steps. Look, I’m crouching down so I don’t look so intimidating. Baby steps –
I really wish you would take your cue and leave already!
Easy there; don’t get so angry. I’ll back off, but only because I just noticed a branch that’s in dire need of being relocated. I’ll back off, for now.
But this is my yard and this time I’m coming right at you. Because this is my yard, I will ignore my morals and take up arms. See, I’m not afraid of that hissing; no. I’m not afraid of that bushy tail. This is my yard.
Oh, please don’t. Please don’t raise your claws at me. Please, I told you I’m a pacifist; the sight of weapons makes me queasy. Please – I-I ok. You win. UNCLE.
I’ll say it. This is my yard…and you want to stay. And – sigh – you can just waltz in here and make it your home.