Art and Love Therapy for Evil Little Boys

Since our return from NH two weeks ago, my three boys have been on the verge of fratricide. At summer camp, they were all in separate cabins and left to torment only those in their own age bracket. And their counselors, poor scarred 18-year-olds who still probably wake up at night in a cold sweat.

But now they have turned on each other like wolves, guided only by my new 14-year-old babysitter who was left with no recourse but to lock them in the basement and blast the "Frozen" soundtrack at them from the stereo. I fully sanctioned the activity. When they finally broke free my eldest son snatched an empty Vodka bottle from the recycling bin and chased young Mordred (as they call her) down the street brandishing it at her. I am sure the neighbors have an even finer view of us than they did before!

The evil reached its pinnacle yesterday afternoon, when 1) Eldest Son hauled Middle Son across the driveway, leaving him with horrible asphalt burns 2) Littlest Son scratched Middle Son so viciously that 3) Middle Son kicked Littlest Son clear across the room and cracked his head into the record cabinet housing the turntable.

The babysitter had long been let off duty, and I hastened downstairs to the screams. The accusations flew fast and fierce.

"He hurted me worser than I did him so he should be punished badder!"

"I did NUFFINK."

"I did nothing; however, I am sure I shall be blamed as I always am, because this is the course of things."

That last speaker, age 10, then flung the TV remote at my head and, as it bounced off my skull, I shouted "GO UPSTAIRS!"

"You always punish ME and not THEM!" he shouted. "Just because I hit you in the head with something you punish ME! Is this fair? Oh, you are such a good mother!"

He was right. They all went into a big fat time-out while I fumed about what I would do to PUNISH them. For wasn't punishment the only acceptable solution? I fretted that I was a bad mom. I didn't know the least thing to do right now. What would serve justice for their naughtiness?

Then it came to me. I would kill the little buggers with kindness. I gathered them in the living room and proposed several options to make reparations. They were:

1. You will each write a heartfelt letter to both brothers expressing that you love them and WHY. The letters must be of a reasonable length and written to the best of your abilities.

This got feedback:

"I dunno how to spell!"
"This is the worstest!"
"Oh shoot me now."

2. You will perform a skit representing the theme of "Brotherly Love." The skit must be of reasonable quality. It may not include battle scenes or death.

This also got feedback:

"But skits without conflict suck."
"Can we have just one battle scene? It could, like, lead up to a scene in which we all hug?"
"Will you be filming it? Cause if so, NO."

3. You will parade down our street singing a song that I will quickly compose called, "I Love My Brothers and My Brothers Love Me."

Feedback:

"I will nevah evah do that."
"Option Three sucks."
"Shoot me now."

Middle Son was openly weeping at this point, and Eldest Son was thrashing about in chair rubbing at his eyes. Littlest Son was staring glumly into space.

So, all options voted down, I told them that they had to collaborate to devise Option Four themselves. And they had to do it without arguing and come to a polite and genial agreement amongst the three of them as to what Option Four would be. This was, of course, the secret behind Option Four. The devising of the option was the activity in itself. Whatever they cooked up would simply be bonus material.

I left the room and returned in about five minutes. During that time, they had all mutually consented to make gifts for each other. The gifts would be made out of clay. They were very keen to get started. There was no talk of screen time. They were, in fact, excited about their plan.

I got out a bucket of air-dry clay and put on some music and they made these. They aren't done yet; they still need to be painted and presented. But they check them throughout the day to see if they are completely dry yet, and Middle Son keeps asking when he can give his presents to his brothers.

A magnificent dragon.

Handmade necklaces.

Strange stubby things?

After the experiment was over we met in a circle for a group hug, during which the boys, unprompted, said things like:

"I love you, my brother."
"My brothers is the best!"
"Hugs and love! Hugs and love!"

We concluded it all with a "Go Team!" cheer, after which I solemnly reminded them that any of the previous options could easily be invoked at any time.

The next day we heard a long, piercing scream from the bathroom. Middle Son had sprayed perfume directly into Littlest Son's eyes. He claimed he had been spraying it to "cleanse the room of bad smells" and that he had sprayed it far from Littlest Son's face. In fact, the victim had had his back turned to him!

Littlest Son cried out that his brother had "broken the bond of brotherly love."

A forensic reenactment of the crime revealed that the lie was preposterous, and the offender was sent to bed. The next day, I decided to bring down Option One (letter writing) as the penalty.

The gist of the letter read, in sum:

"I did absolutely nothing wrong and have no guilt whatsoever because I am innocent and did nothing wrong and am innocent. Will you forgive me? Love, your brother."

I shall start work on my original Brotherly Love song shortly, which will be filled with uniquely embarrassing references such as:

Brothers never argue, brothers always share.

Brothers even give up their last pair of underwear.
My brothers are my blood, to them I'm always true.
If they ever called upon me, I'd even wipe their poo.

Public performances forthcoming.

The Same 10 Questions I Always Ask Myself, Part the Eighth

1. What are you wearing?
A brassiere made of gallbladders. Smudged glasses.

2. What's the nature of today's hypochondria?
The occasional ringing in my left ear is caused by a rapidly growing brain tumor that will soon cut off all sound and sense. I also think the doctor gave me the wrong prescription for my eyeglasses, and as a result I will soon go blind.

3. What was today's workout?
A punishing session of wrassling "Baby Sunshine" into his diaper while he slapped at me with snot-encrusted fingers.

4. How do you do what you do and stay so sweet?
I have wallpapered my writing den with the flesh of darling little animals, such as bunnies.

5. What's that burning smell?
That's the neighbor down the block, Crazy L, who is putting into effect her brutal Scorched Earth policy. First she put up the No Trespassing signs. Next will be the chain link fence complete with slavering dogs. Soon, she will install gun turrets on the roof to take down anyone who accidentally strolls across her property line with the "double tap" to the forehead.

I like what this does for our property values.

6. If you were an animal, what kind would you be?
A hot buttered bivalve.

7. What are you drinking, and why?
The hot, bitter mead of insatiable sorrow and jealousy.

8. In what ways hast thou offended?
Instead of going to church last week, I waited in the shrubbery outside the church and threw pickles at the churchgoers. I do this every weekend.

9. What's the next big thing?
Spam filters made out of actual SPAM, designed to catch unwary tourists and people with unfortunate surnames like "Fagina" in their rubbery, pink coils.

10. Music selection?
Elbow: "Build a rocket, boys!"

Scarecrows: The Only Way to Inspire Jealousy and Rank Fear in One's Neighbors

Above: An extremely menacing and possibly predatory scarecrow terrorizes a neighborhood. It is joined by evil brethren from the local garden center.

I would like to tell you the secret for making your home shine like a diamond in a sea of mediocrity. And that secret is this: Scarecrows. The more scarecrows a property has, the more it will breed stirrings of fitful and vengeful jealousy in the neighbors; pride of ownership in you, the owner; and rank fear in the local squirrel, neighbor, and bird populations.

I have only three scarecrows, as I have recently learned the secret over the past weekend, and have been unable to get to the supermarket to buy scarecrow-making equipment due to the heavy snows. My scarecrows are named after familiar friends and companions of mine, so they are called Johnny-Laid-a-Turd, Repticilus Vaginicus, and She Who Chews Soup. I have placed them in menacing attitudes in various spots about my property.

As soon as I placed my first scarecrow I sighted my neighbor peering out of her upstairs window through her binoculars. I could tell right away by her shocked expression that the scarecrow had terrified her greatly—and her greatest terror lay in the fact that she, poor wretched thing, had not a single scarecrow gracing her property. My first scarecrow was wearing very little at all but a loincloth I had fashioned out of a bathtowel, and I had nailed him on a cross-like structure near the foot of the driveway. Soon after, my neighbor went out in her car, casting me dark looks of aspersion. I believe she went to the local Shop-Rite to purchase some stuffing and scarecrow-pelt material, and perhaps she was caught in the ensuing blizzard? Serves her right, the plagiarizing poseur that she is!

While she was out, I took the opportunity to set up my second scarecrow on the roof overlooking the driveway. Despite the cold weather (Christmas was rapidly approaching), I dressed this scarecrow in a cast-off Lilly Pulitzer dress that no longer fits me due to ingestion of strudel.

It is very important to dress one’s scarecrows appropriately. Outdated costumes that make your scarecrows look like “hayseeds” or “rubes” will only cause your neighbors to laugh at you, not foam at the mouth with jealously. It is difficult to get your scarecrows to look properly menacing while wearing cocktail attire, but it can be done. I suggest buying a pen of the Sharpie brand and drawing very dark eyebrows with a vigorous, up-and-down squiggling motion that makes the scarecrow look like it’s saying “Grr! Grrr!” This has always made my scarecrows look angry and fit to kill, even while holding pink paisley handbags.

I know I have only three scarecrows but I intend to get more very soon.

It is important that your scarecrows are homemade. Storebought scarecrows are often cheap and shoddily made, and their faces melt off in the first heavy rain. Plus, their costumes are not name brand, and that is a dreadful embarrassment. There is nothing more humiliating than seeing a squirrel fearlessly nibbling at the privates of your scarecrow—knowing the damned thing was false by the cut of its collar or the crease in its pant legs—while you are eagerly waiting for that same scarecrow to menace the underthings off your hoity-toity neighbor across the street.

A scarecrow that is not properly menacing should be eliminated from your property, before you become a laughingstock. I always choose compostable materials when constructing a scarecrow, so that I can toss my scarecrow in the compost heap without fear of damaging our Mother Earth. This is why my most recent scarecrow is made entirely out of congealed soup.

No one else on my block has a scarecrow. It is quite pitiable. Not only will their vegetables be snacked upon by all manner of avian pest, but they have to live with the fact that I have beat them to it as a trend-setter. If they were to all invest in scarecrows now, they would most certainly appear to be copying me. It is too late for them. They are doomed to sink in a sea of mediocrity. My neighbor is probably furiously stitching away at her new scarecrow, glaring at me through the window as she does so, but I shall still boldly stride through her property, snacking her vegetables as much as I like. It shall not deter me, although she is using Very Menacing rosemary spriggets for its eyebrows. Rosemary that she could have used in a stew but chose to employ against me, her sweet neighbor. Such is the nature of jealousy, my friends.

You who do not live on my block, however, can still adopt this trend and look smart and chic! I will not begrudge you, especially if you live far across the country where you and your derivative brethren will not bother me. This is why I am sharing the secret of making your property the Very Best It Can Be. With scarecrows!

Here are the best ten tips for building your scarecrows with the proper menace, and with nature-friendly and affordable materials:

1. Encourage your children, if you have any, to participate in the construction of the scarecrow. A child’s poor artistry and inability to construct arms of equal lengths will give your scarecrow a horrible, deformed quality that would never be achieved in those factory-made knockoffs. If you do not possess children of your own, you may borrow one of mine. They have unmedicated spatial inconsistencies that will give your scarecrows that je ne sais quoi.

2. It is best to patent your scarecrow with the U.S. patent office, especially if you have found a way to make him sentient and/or capable of perpetual motion without fresh ingestions of petrol.

3. When arranging your scarecrow in the most menacing attitude on your property, it is often advisable to rest its hands gently upon its privates. This will cause neighbors to wonder if it has molestation on the brain. Were it to become sentient, this would be unpleasant. This will cause them to lie awake at night thinking agitated thoughts, and limit their abilities to do better than you in any way.

4. Straw, chaff, wheat, spelt, and so on are poor choices for scarecrow stuffing. I prefer Gluten-free ingredients that are not liable to be pecked by wild turkeys and doves, causing my scarecrow to look decrepit and decayed. Gluten-free pasta, crackers, and breads are readily available at most health food stores, including Mrs. Greens and Whole Foods.

5. Try to make your scarecrows diverse, reflecting the breadth of our colorful, human tapestry. A sea of white scarecrows dangling from wooden staves and crosses will just make your home look like a rarified country club. This is not what We want to achieve.

6. A scarecrow’s handbag should always be of an appropriate seasonal hue. If a scarecrow is wearing a light, white summer frock, do not choose a heavy black handbag, for example. This sort of thing will result in rude talk amongst the very neighbors one is trying to menace.

7. Scarecrows can be made much more menacing by the application of odors, such as Go Away Evil ™, or by installing soundtracks that play artists such as Peter Cetera. A scarecrow that appears to be singing “I am a man who will fight for your honor” will disturb and agitate many passersby.

8. Accessorize, accessorize, accessorize! I mentioned handbags earlier. The handbags are much more menacing if they are filled with real grenades, loose bullets, or the carcasses of the scared-stiff animals that you have managed to trap by freezing them in the aural glare of a Peter Cetera marathon. Scarecrows also look nice with necklaces made of human teeth.

9. Remember that the goal is to keep people off your property and cause them to tremble in fear whenever your name is mentioned. Then, and only then, will perfect domination be achieved! If any scarecrow fails to fulfill this purpose, it should be terminated without remorse. It is best to terminate during a neighborhood Block Party, at the exact moment that the ice cream truck arrives. In winter, substitute with the arrival of the local Caroling group.


10. Local teens tend to think that scarecrows are a subject for hilarity, not mind-numbing terror. Teach them a lesson by air-dropping a batch of homemade beauties atop their homes during “Movie Night” or a sleepover. Make certain the scarecrows you choose to drop are the ones most likely to become sentient at the most surprising moments, or else the hollow thumping may simply remind the callow teens of turds striking the roof.
  
It is best not to overdo the scarecrows. I know that I earlier recommended “the more scarecrows the better,” but I have recently revised my view due to an article I read in The New York Times. I am a little bit scared now, as the one I made out of soup has dissolved into my yard in the heavy snows and, therefore, into our water table.  

I would rather not share the entirety of the article's content here, due to copyright restrictions, but suffice it to say that my prescient warnings about sentient scarecrows came true for one poor homeowner in Marietta, Georgia, who had covered every square foot of her property with a matching scarecrow in a gingham outfit with black button eyes (Pfah! Hardly menacing!), in an effort to control the local goose population. Not only were Ms. Scribb's geese not deterred, but her scarecrows turned on her in a gruesome bloodbath that is soon to be made into a motion picture. Let this be a lesson to you! Keep your scarecrows to a minimum. I suggest 15 at most. Good luck to you.

The Pony Ain't Got Nothing to Bitch About No More, So, Sorry Mom

Now that I have moved to the Nicest Neighborhood in Westchester, I really don't have much to be mad about anymore. Since moving in, we have totalled:

1 banana bread with chocolate chips
1 apple pie
1 champagne (still chillin')
1 bottle white wine (large, already gone)
1 offer to come and take whatever perennials we need from neighbor's garden
1 offer to walk into other neighbor's house at any time of day or night and take whatever we need
1 invitation to a delightful Sunday evening "ice cream social" down the block
1 invitation to a delightful kids' pool party complete with wine for adults
Umpteen visits from neighbors who have "popped by" to welcome us
1 promise to host a "beer and hotdogs" welcome party for us with "the works"

What is a Pony to do in such an environment? Accuse these nice people of a sinister, Stepford-esque quality? I thought about it, my faithful readers, and I still might go there. But not today.

Seeking a victim at which to poke gentle fun, I shall turn to my dear mother. She is visiting from out of town this week and is, I must say, an enormous help. Almost 80, she's been out in the yard chopping at bushes with big loppers, tearing at weeds, and dragging the refuse to the curb (yes, I tried to stop her). When not engaged in this activity, I have caught her sweeping, scrubbing at the kitchen floor, tidying toys, and poking and prying into every drawer and closet in the house.

My mother is a Nosy Parker of the highest echelon, perhaps the Grand-Dame Poobah of Nosy Parkers in the Western Hemisphere. If your dresser drawer is a millimeter open, that's an invitation to peep inside. Maybe she'll find a pack of cigarettes! Or birth control! Or a diary containing lurid descriptions of smoking and indulging in activities that require birth control!

She also has many opinions. Among them:

"That front porch is downright dangerous. I don't feel comfortable walking on that porch. You ought to do something about that right away." [The front porch is sagging and will one day cost us 30K to fix. Right on that, mom!]

"Your oven is a problem. Why, you can't even tell what temperature it is. How on earth can you bake anything? Something might get too hot and GO UP IN FLAMES. That could be dangerous! Here, let me tinker with the dial and fix it!" [The flimsy dial pops off and I can no longer get the oven to go on. I eventually fix it after much tooth-gnashing.]

"The screaming these children do. It's frightful! MY children never made such a fuss, not once! I have no recollection of behavior this awful! I am embarrassed. The neighbors are going to wish you had never moved here! Maybe you ought to close all the windows?" [When I questioned the validity of "my children never made such a fuss" she finally admitted that her eldest son had had "one or two tantrums" as a toddler. I know this fellow and I believe he had more than one or two button-popping incidents as a tiny youth.]

"The baby's spit-up looks rather phlegmy. And he spits up SO MUCH. Do you think there might be something wrong with that? Maybe you should mention it to your doctor. [I tell her that the doctor and I spoke at length about the spittling infant.] Well, maybe you should mention it to your doctor AGAIN. It can't hurt!"

Meanwhile, my dear neighbors watch her valiantly hacking at the weeds in the hot sun, unable to resist the call of duty. She fits right in, they say. She's so durned helpful and nice!

The Same 10 Questions I Always Ask Myself, Part the Fifth

1. What are you wearing?
Shorts in a size I don't wanna be. And a shirt that narrowly escaped the latest Reflux Rage of the Incredible Spittling Infant.

2. What's the nature of today's hypochondria?
Sleep deprivation will lead to foolish errors in judgement which will imperil my life.

3. What was today's workout?
At least 7,000 paces through the Bronx Zoo.

4. How do you do what you do and stay so sweet?
You, dear reader, are all that stands between me and a bout of the nasties.

5. What's that burning smell?
The neighbors who never invite us over not for any reason not that we want to consort with them anyway are grilling something tasty again. Grrr.

6. If you were an animal, what kind would you be?
A maniacal kookaburra with a squirrel monkey for a pet.

7. What are you drinking, and why?
Shiraz from Australia. I tried Maker's Mark but it offended.

8. In what ways hast thou offended?
I dissed my home city of New Ro and for that I am sorely repentant. I started a big tire fire of controversy filled with slutty accessories and dollar store items!

9. What's the next big thing?
That's "things" plural, and the answer is my big boobies. They are bigger than you!

10. Music selection?
The Fix is in. Great soundtrack to a movie that doesn't exist yet!

Shuffles, We Hardly Knew Ye

OK, I lied, I have another blog post in me. Barely.

It looks like we have a buyer for our home, although contracts are not yet signed. And of course I have mixed feelings about the whole prospect of moving an entire family of five and all their accoutrement, especially since I don't know where we're moving. We do have three cars, so we figure that's three separate rooms for each of us. The boys can share the Jetta and thoroughly trash it with their crumbs and detritus, and the baby gets the Passat. We'll bunk down in the SUV.

The truth is, saying goodbye to Shuffles and her ilk will be sweet sorrow. The house is a good, solid place, and we're leaving it better than we found it. Good karma in that, right? There's a fine fat blueberry bush in the backyard about to bear fruit, and our wild raspberry patch has just delivered its first crop (the second arrives in late summer, too late for us to enjoy it). We'll also miss the harvest of the cherry tomatoes, peppers, and cukes—someone else will be feasting on those. And lo, the great chestnut tree. That tree is a beauty. I think I'll miss the rampant plonking of chestnuts atop car roofs this fall most of all; my boys collect them like treasure and line them up along the front yard. Pockets turned out at end of day, in autumn, always reveal a hoarded chestnut or two.

Even the insistent thrum of the trucks beyond the fence has become familiar. Three hoochies stuffed into tube tops just strolled down our street, enjoying the night air, and a bonehead driving too fast the wrong way up our one-way street can always be anticipated. (As my # 1 son says, "You always have to look both ways when crossing a street because there might be an idiot going the wrong way.")

Today on my walk with the infant, I spotted a shopping cart leaning up against a rusty fence. Right down the block, I saw where the city has torn up lovely old bluestone sidewalk slates and replaced them with concrete. The slates are lying there abandoned. Some thuggish types were tossing a ball in the street. It may well be that this neighborhood will "turn around" in a few years and the houses will shoot up in value, but some of the people who live here probably don't care for those pioneering Brooklynites who thought they would forge a path into the wilderness. They don't care about "turn arounds." That's just for snobs like us. They just want a place to live.

Then, of course, you get the opinion of the outsider. My good pal just arrived from Billyburg on Friday and sat on our porch. "This is delightful," she pronounced. "What a great place. What a great house!" And indeed, it is. We'll miss it (provided that the contract gets signed.) I'll miss my boys running around the house in sweeping circles, through kitchen, music room, living room. "Say boo when I run past!" they command. And we do, hiding in the few corners and snatching at their unwary legs as they shriek. Not too long ago, the elder boy dragged the younger--just learning to run--each clasping one end of an uncoiled Slinky. The younger would get left behind and then--sproing!!--would stagger to catch up as the Slinky hauled him forward. They run, their legs get longer, and they are lean and strong.

When they see our older neighbor, they scream a welcome like he's their very own granddad. And run to him, asking to help carry trowels or swab down his truck. They have a "rock garden" behind the garage with trucks and buckets filled with supplies, including leaves and dirt and clippings from the hedge. Wearing their little French Foreign Legion style sunhats, they work back their with the assiduous nature of those who expect to earn a large paycheck for their labors. Sometimes they pinch a half-ripe raspberry or dig too close to the pansies.

It's their world, and it's a fine one. They'll remember nothing but good of this place.

Shuffles Redux

Tonight on my way home I spotted our neighbor Shuffles, shuffling her way along our street with her wiglike dark hair bobbing as she moved. Her trim little bluejeans were much too high around the ankles and she wore black running sneakers and a nondescript blue sweatshirt. I stalked her in a stealthy manner, noting once again the similarities between her visage and that of a Cabbage Patch Doll. Not once did she turn, but I sensed that, yes, she knew I was there. She felt my beady eyes at her back, my hot breath upon her neck. She seemed to twitch when I darted behind this tree and that shubbery, although she thought it merely the wind's vagaries that caused her an involuntary flinch.

I know ye, Shuffles. I know that you stole my little cat Potatoe exactly two years ago, and keep him close by your side in your darkened house with drawn shades, the house that smells of old cabbage and bunions. I know you read your horoscope this morning, and it alerted you to the possibility that a stranger will spot you bagging groceries at the Stop and Shop and whisk you off to Hollywood, where you will star as a stripper in a low-budget remake of Showgirls.

I am aware that you set out your black running shoes next to your white this morning and thought: "I shall choose the black. Today, I shall choose the black." And that Potatoe curled around your bony white ankles as you sipped your weak tea and ate a fried egg, and the egg dripped down over your chin and you wiped it with a rag that was once a pair of faded, grey Granny undies, consigned to the cleaning supply closet. You read OK magazine as you ate, and entertained rude thoughts about Britney's midriff, and agreed with the poll that suggested her career was ruined. And yes, Shuffles, you let yourself gloat in the fact--for one quick moment--that your stomach is flatter than Britney's can ever now be. That decision not to fall in love, marry, and have children--a doom-laden sequence that leads inexorably to midriff spread--has its rewards, and they are sweet rewards indeed.

After you ate your breakfast you sorted your cutlery, brushed your wiglike hair, and wrote a letter to the mayor of New Rochelle demanding redress for all sorts of ills, including the noxious sounds emitted by the cement trucks that pass along the 95 entrance ramp. You also spoke firmly about the need to replace the stop sign at the corner with one that does not have a sticker on it reading: "No Jesus, No peace. Know Jesus, Know Peace." Not that you have anything against old Jesus, but enough is enough with the grafitti. WWJD indeed, Shuffles--why, he'd be an upstanding citizen, just like you!

I think we are sympatico in a way, Shuffles. I'll bet that you wouldn't fit in with those Pelham moms, either. You'd find them distasteful, as I do, and you would spurn their SUVs with many rude hand gestures, if you only had a car yourself and weren't forced to shuffle, shuffle everywhere. You would give them that owl-eyed stare from behind your giant, round glasses--smeared with fingerprints--and think to yourself: "Poo. I don't like them one bit." I applaud your dignity, Shuffles!

I think you don't think much of our neighbors, either. Some of our close companions here are Lumpen, unassailably stupid, and built like brick shithouses. Not all, mind you. You know what's what, who's good, and all that. You are a shining beacon of hope, Shuffles.

Except there was that odd moment the other night when, on your way home in the darkness, you stopped right across the street from our porch. You turned and stared--for a long, long uncomfortable minute. You stood still like a hunting dog, poised to lunge. I stared back, but partially shielded by one of our porch columns, so that you couldn't see the whites of my eyes. What were you looking for? I held my breath. Would you step across the street, that great divide, and confess your misdeeds?

"I'm sorry I took your cat," you might have said. "I was just so dreadfully lonely." But you said nothing. You left, eventually. Back to your home with the green shuttered door and the crappy peeling paint, head down and shoulders hunched, flipping your hair over your shoulder like some hoochie teenager and moving with that perplexing gait...shuffle...shuffle...shuffle.

I guess you can keep my cat, Shuffles. He piddled in our basement anyway, and he was as dumb as a post.