Are you frustrated yet?

Everyday we watch the fiasco that is Washington. The mess that is national politics as our representatives spend more time fighting than getting bills passed.

So let’s talk about the Minnesota Vikings and how my Sunday went.

On the surface, I should probably admit I’m not a huge Vikings fan. I’m a casual.

You won’t see me partitioning off large chunks of Sunday just to watch the Vikings, I don’t have any apparel of Minnesota’s Purple Pride and I won’t ever paint my face.

I’m just not that big of a fan. What I will do is watch until things get iffy or it starts going downhill or my cats want to play.

I’m pretty easily distracted when it comes to these things. Even when I was hyping up this year’s Twins, it wasn’t because I was a die-hard fan, but mostly because I was surprised it’s happening and I let it sweep me along.

Not that I’m concerned they will win the World Series. Let’s pump the breaks on these things. Dampens the disappointment later.

But, as I do each year, I sat down Sunday and watched the entirety of the season opener and yay! We won!

Or THEY won. I suppose I didn’t do much other than have a beer, eat some popcorn and be an honorary couch cushion for the day all the while being joined by the Busterious of Busters or Buster for short.

The Mower County Humane Society chose not to bestow such a title on him, but I feel he’s earned it.

Really, there was no better way to spend the day, and the Vikings were a nice addition.

I’m running a lot these days and just collapsing on the couch with a Buster cat doesn’t happen much. However, despite the nice afternoon, I think Buster may be a little disappointed in things.

Apparently Buster can read. I didn’t know this, and we were never told. He can talk certainly, evidenced by his coming into the bedroom every morning and waking me up with a meow that roughly translated asks, “WHY ARE YOU NOT UP YET? I’M HUNGRY.” The meow is deafening enough to require all caps.

At any rate, I came to work last week and to see an email to me from the Mower County Humane Society with an editorial Buster wished to submit allowing him to voice complaints as to how I’ve referred to him in the paper recently. He even has a hashtag, which is a little dramatic, but I’ll give it to them.

This is the letter he had Jay and Kelly from the humane society deliver to me:

About five years ago I was adopted (some might say kidnapped) from the Mower County Humane Society by Eric Johnson and his family.  Eric writes a weekly column in the Herald entitled “The Wide Angle” and on numerous occasions has used this platform to defame me.  After reading last Saturday’s installment, I’ve decided that enough is enough and it’s time to defend my good name and offer rebuttal.

First of all, with regards to my treatment of her royal highness Nemi the First of the Castle Nemikins (the other cat in this house) lets remember one important thing; I was here first.  I was “the most Busterious Buster that’s ever Bustered” as Eric puts it, long before she showed up.  And that’s another thing.  All she had to do was show up one day and they welcomed her in with open arms. I had to work my tail off (not literally) displaying all kinds of cuteness, affection, and playful antics to get the Johnson’s to finally adopt me.  Clearly this family has some border control issues.  I think they should seriously consider “building the wall.”  Finally, Mr. Johnson has in the past, and in this most recent column, referred to my behavior as sometimes “flipping into psycho mode.”  Words matter Eric. And I find your words to be  hurtful and unfair. I’m a cat for crying out loud. And remember, my ancestors once hunted and ate your ancestors.  In closing, I encourage Herald subscribers to continue to read The Wide Angle each week, and whenever Eric writes about me, consider these words from the American anthropologist Loren Eisley, “One does not meet oneself until one catches the reflection in an eye other than human.”

Respectfully submitted,

Buster the Cat

#meowtoo

I never in my life knew that Buster felt this way. I always thought we had an open cat/owner relationship. The big goober has always seemed happy and it’s proven by the fact he refuses to act his age. He’s nearly seven years old. In human years that’s getting to a human age where one is limited to only a handful of toys on your desk at work … or so I’ve heard.

I guess this means I shouldn’t be talking ill of the boy, now that I know he can read. He’s shown an urge to go outside recently and I don’t need him taking these accusations all over town. It’s hard to deny the adorable fur ball when he meows in all caps. I guess it also means I’ll have to spoil him a little further, though I stop short of buying him any more toys.

He doesn’t put away the ones he has now.