A Better Place for Cats

Ordinarily I would decline, but just recently I hear that medical research proves marijuana is good for glaucoma, a disease of the eyes.

Well, I know something about glaucoma. When I was about ten my dad caught it. Whereas glaucoma therefore undoubtedly runs in my family, I'm suddenly worried.

In recent times my health has been less than excellent, anyhow. For a few years now I have been on disability for kidney failure (not, as my persecutors claim, for paranoia). And since I notice that sometimes my eyes are bloodshot, I decide that an ounce of prevention is unfortunately necessary.

Although Cloud, it turns out, has much under an ounce, we nevertheless roll a righteous number beneath the cat condo in back of Beautific Books. Everyone in the neighborhood agrees that underneath the cat condo is the best place to smoke because nobody knows everybody goes there to get ripped.

As he fumbles with his child-proof lighter, Cloud grumbles that this cat condo is a big eye sore. Now although sore eyes are lately a subject of great interest to me, I wish Cloud would keep this unprofessional appraisal to himself. For while he is a very great artist, and not a half-bad telemarketer, he is manifestly no architectural critic.

Further, I know something about this cat condo because I build it for Billy and Molly, a couple of strays who live in the alley. Never once does either of them complain about any of its features, except to sharpen their claws and glare at me when some wasps build a nest in the sideways trash barrel I wedge into the structure as a shelter from rain because the roof leaks.

Now this condo is on high stilts, so you can sit under it on a couple of real tombstones, most recently rolled end over end, with tedious care and effort, from behind the Junkyard Dog, where they were retired from a macabre window display. For some reason grave desecration also does not sit well with Cloud. No sooner does he lay off my kitty condo than he waxes most indignant about my granite furniture, and at some length.

Finally, I'm like: "Listen, man, it seems to me you are in a bum way this afternoon and although this is good grass, I'm starting to think I should have just let myself go blind. I am working very hard to make the world a better place for cats and potheads and I don't need to be discouraged in my struggle."

Because he is offended by my constructive criticism, I now know for sure he is in a rotten funk. I make an excuse and split.

When I round the corner in front of the book store, Fred Burgundy, the owner, is sweeping the sidewalk. He's like: "I know I gave you permission to build a cat condo out in back, but lately I notice it really looks ramshackle. And what about those tombstones? You'd think a couple of corpses are buried there."

I'm like: "I'll plant some morning glory vines to cover all that up."

Jeez, the moon must be in Crabapple or something.