This is partly due to (TMI?) their thickness and partly due to the direction they have grown, which makes them difficult to attack, especially given that none of my joints are very flexible anymore and that my eyesight is so bad. I keep worrying that I'll slip and slice open a toe. I'll probably have to get someone else to cut those two, after which I might be able to keep up with them in the future. It was being without attention for over two months that got them to this state.
Anyway I dealt with that crap and then it was late afternoon, and I didn't feel like going for a long walk so I just took a couple of turns up and down the block as the sun settled into the evening clouds. The clouds are thicker now, and will be thick all day tomorrow, and on Tuesday the rain will return. It might not leave until late Thursday. It's going to be a monotonous week, I fear, except for tomorrow when I go to the bank and (hopefully) to at least one market and preferably two. But I can't really rely on that happening.
Friday will be a significant day, as that is when the shelters that have been looking after the cats and dogs rescued from the fire zone will begin allowing the adoption of animals who have not been claimed by their owners. I have seen a few photos of cats who might or might not be mine, but I've been unable to arrange transportation to go and see them. This will be the last week I can be sure they will still be there if I do get to go.
Unless I find Portia or Frosty I will probably surrender them for adoption anyway, but I would like to know if any of them are survivors. I'm sure my landlord wouldn't let me have more than two at the most, and the other cats would probably be just as happy to live with someone else as long as they got fed regularly, but Portia and Frosty are both so devoted to me, and Frosty so fond of Portia, that I doubt I could let them go.
But it's not certain that any of the cats in the shelters are mine, and so far none of them look much like Frosty, so until and unless I can go see them for myself there's no point in planning anything beyond that. Hell, I don't even have any furniture for them to ruin yet, and I'm sure it's a miserable life for a cat without furniture to ruin.
Everything beyond this week is still a mystery. I have no idea what I'm going to do once it stops raining but I'll probably go practice riding the buses. Chico has a fairly extensive transit system, and being old I'll get a 50% discount on fares. There are actual places here, after a fashion, so I'd have a reason, sort of, to go out. I wouldn't mind visiting the University's book store, and I think there are a couple of used book stores downtown. Maybe I could find copies of a few of the books I've been missing. I might even find some actual Mexican food of a quality I haven't had since leaving Los Angeles. But that's later. For now I have to try to get to sleep so I can get up and go banking tomorrow. Oh, the excitement of semi-metropolitan life!
I'm going to post something for Sunday Verse that I'm sure I've posted before, but it's from one of the two books in my newly acquired library, which I need to inaugurate, and I like this piece a lot.
After the Last Bulletins
by Richard Wilbur
After the last bulletins the windows darken
And the whole city founders readily and deep,
Sliding on all its pillows
To the thronged Atlantis of personal sleep,
And the wind rises. The wind rises and bowls
The day’s litter of news in the alleys. Trash
Tears itself on the railings,
Soars and falls with a soft crash,
Tumbles and soars again. Unruly flights
Scamper the park, and taking a statue for dead
Strike at the positive eyes,
Batter and flap the stolid head
And scratch the noble name. In empty lots
Our journals spiral in a fierce noyade
Of all we thought to think,
Or caught in corners cramp and wad
And twist our words. And some from gutters flail
Their tatters at the tired patrolman’s feet,
Like all that fisted snow
That cried beside his long retreat
Damn you! damn you! to the emperor’s horse’s heels.
Oh none too soon through the air white and dry
Will the clear announcer’s voice
Beat like a dove, and you and I
From the heart’s anarch and responsible town
Return by subway-mouth to life again,
Bearing the morning papers,
And cross the park where saintlike men,
White and absorbed, with stick and bag remove
The litter of the night, and footsteps rouse
With confident morning sound
The songbirds in the public boughs.