Honor Honor’s Our Vets; Cat Names Self


So. As this week winds down and races headlong into the holiday weekend, I have a few observations and a little news. For those of you who are sticklers for the details, also the grammar police out there whom I haven’t already chased away, I say this. “Yes, it is too possible for the week to wind down while racing headlong.”

Don’t go all English teacher on my ass when it’s your misunderstanding of my intentions at fault. Like a 100-meter footrace, it’s the last ten meters that’s run the fastest. Same way with cheap wind-up toys– that last second of operation is almost frenzied when compared to the rest.

Now, if we were talking watches, different story, because with watches, a cheap watch frenzies near the end of a wind while an expensive watch slows as a winding matures. At least that would be my personal observations. My first watch was a hand-me-down given to me by my late grandfather on my sixth birthday. It was a cheap pocket watch given to him when he “graduated” from the Hopehouse Home for Abandoned Boys at age seventeen.

“They give each of us a watch when they kicked us out. Kicked my rosy red ass out and into the Marines. Fucking Marines kicked my rosy red ass right over to France. Fucking Germans tried to kick my rosy red ass all to hell.” Grandad never did talk about his ass, always his rosy red ass.

Of course, the rest of the above-mentioned rant would always include, “I’d chose to spent the rest of my life in them fucking trenches if I’d knowed what that woman was gonna do to me.”

“That woman” would be Gram, and “them fucking trenches” would be the French battle lines in WWI. Grandad always called WWI “the big one”. After spending most of my life in the heat of Gram’s furnace, I can almost understand my grandfather’s sentiment.

The face of my first watch was already heavily worn when gifted to me. The hour hand was placed on top of the minute hand, upside down in my opinion, and the minute hand lightly dragged as it wound it’s way through each six-hours’ time. All but the tops or sides of each Roman numeral were worn off, and all but one letter of the watchmaker’s name had disappeared. There was a light etched circle in the cheap tin face where the hand had circled thousands of times. The remaining letter of the maker’s name, an A, gave no real clue to the watch smith’s identity.

I’d wind that watch carefully, just as Grandad instructed me. “Don’t twist it too fast, Mooner, and don’t wind it too tight.” When I had trouble with the “too tight” part, he said to me, he said, “Treat it like a loose tooth that you want wiggle but don’t want to pull.”

Anyway, whenever that old watch would wind down, it would spend but fifteen minutes moving the last hour. It would wind down four times in any twenty-four-hour period. “Ain’t for keeping good time, Mooner, it’s just for show.”

My current watch, an Omega Rail Master I’ve had for many years, is a self-winder that slowly winds down after I remove it from my wrist. It has an extra-large dial to match my thick wrist, and it is a simple timepiece that I love. Fucking watch is a part of me.

Now I’m tearing-up over my fucking watch. My soon-to-be- my dog and soon-to-not-be my cat brought me to tears earlier, and I’ve been tearing-up since. I think if you set a bowl of popcorn in front of me I’d well up like a baby. I love popcorn, but holy fuckballs, enough already.

As you all know, my buddy and hopefully future-future spousal material, The Reckmonster, has had a rough time. Several of the veterans she monitors for a federal agency have committed suicide recently and she’s taken it hard. I share the Reck’s unhappiness over the lack of concern shown by our government, and much of our general populace, over the care of our returning vets.

Reck has written several stories about the recent tragedies over to her place at Rantings of the Reckmonster. That’s http://www.michellelcsw.blogspot.com/ on your bloggie dial. Pay her a visit to see what I mean. When you aren’t crying, you’ll laugh your asses off.

Her stories basically demonstrate that the brave men and women who have so honored our country with their service, are returning home to no honors. We are treating them like the expended shells of war rather than warriors. Pathetic.

I have been reading Reck’s stories to the little cat and dog, Squirt and Eighty-three, and they surprised me this morning with an announcement. I was sitting to the foot of my bed with Rush Limbaugh the pig and the ostrich Rick Perry at my feet, while the cat and dog were conferring in hushed tones at the head of the bed. I was trying to get the gay lovers to come out of my closet for maybe the hundredth time.

As usual, they were crying and snivel-snotting and telling me how sorry they are for inconveniencing me, but we made no real progress, again for the hundredth time. As usual, I had slimy pig snot and acrid ostrich tears staining my clothes. After that crying jag diminished, the diminutive puppy named Squirt brought the little cat to sit by my side.

“Bwana Mooner,” the Squirt started, “hat die Katze etwas a’ vous dire.”

“OK, Squirt. What does Eighty-three want to tell me?”

The little dog and cat spoke to each other in animated whispers. “Elle vent l’honneus Senorita Reckmonster and le veterans by naming herself Honor. Ehre, Honneur, Onior, Heshima, if you will.”

I sat in stunned, still silence and the tears started to slip down my face. I started boo-hooing and the two small animals jumped into my lap to comfort me. “It’s OK, Monsieur Mooner. It’s OK,” Squirt consoled.

“Oh, little lady, these are tears of joy and sadness too. I’m so proud of you guys I could … something. I don’t know what, I’m just so proud.”

So I’ve been a tad weepy since. I am, however, proud of my parenting skills. I might be crazy but I’m a decent father in spite of it.

Now I need to load the cooler with Carta Blanca beers so we can head out. I promised Honor and Squirt that I would take them to anti-anti-abortion protest over to the Planned Parenthood offices. Catholic Anti-Abortion Lady has been over there and I promised Honor a treat.

Manana, y’all.

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4 Responses to “Honor Honor’s Our Vets; Cat Names Self”

  1. Squatlo says:

    I just remembered the old Boy Scout Oath started with “On my honor, I will do my best…”

    Tell the little shit she did good, Mooner. And I’m sure Reckem appreciates a link to her site now that she’s gotten all down in the dumps about her vets and their lousy treatment at the hands of our government and society in general. She posted a GREAT looking shot of a bowl of gumbo on Facebook earlier, so maybe she’s coming around. Kind of miss the Frothy Michelle, but understand how that line of work could leave you morose more often than not.

    Ever seen a movie called “Nobody’s Fool” with Paul Neuman and Jessica Tandy (and Bruce Willis and a yummy performance by Melanie Griffith)??? In it Paul Neuman plays a cynical, bitter guy with a disability who has a tender moment when he hands his grandson an old pocket watch for a present, and explains how to wind ‘er up. Touching scene, fucking great movie! Find it somewhere if you haven’t already got a copy. It’s a good ‘un.

  2. admin says:

    Squat. Honor sometimes seems to me to be a trite sentiment. I hear politicians throw the word around like favors at a fund raiser.

    But honor, true honor, is one of man’s most noble words. I missed the movie– I’ll look for it.

  3. Hey Mooner, Thanks for the shout out…and tell that sassy cat I approve of her self-appointed moniker! An excellent tribute to our vets. And yeah, it was a rough week last week, but luckily I was able to escape to New Orleans for a super long weekend and a really nice wedding – so that helped lift the “fog of funk.” Good thing Honor named herself…I would hate to think what the ostrich and pig might have cooked up for a name!!!

  4. admin says:

    Reck. Glad you’re back! Good to hear the mini vacation helped lift your spirits. Deep breath, pause… back to work.

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