I've been in my office for more than an hour pouring over the print-out client ledger my attorney sent me instead of the invoices and statements I requested. My head aches and I'd like to call him at home now, it's nearly midnight, and scream, "read my lips I want itemized statements I need itemized statements and I need those now, like NOW."
Garfield kitty has jumped on my desk four times during this and each time I have plucked him from the mass of books and papers, pulling his paws off my calculator, and practically thrown him on the floor. Admonishing him, no, stay down, leave the room—as if he could understand.
Finally, the ledger printout is just too dense and I decide to be very firm when I call the attorney's office tomorrow. As soon as I change to my other desk to go online, Garfield is back on the deserted desk, curling up pathetically under the lamp. Squinting at me sideways, "you Meanie."
Meanwhile, Sammy the guinea pig is proactively demanding water. His bottle is empty because my daughter was so tired she went straight to bed when we got home. Mom has to save piggy from dehydration. But I'm busy! Sammy is clanking his teeth on the metal spout and yanking the whole contraption madly—so that it clangs against the bars of his cage. The noise registers fully and I'd better just get the damn water so I can have a modicum of peace.
Suddenly, all of the anger I feel from work today, and frustration with attorneys who use their housewife as their bookkeeper boils up and I jump from my chair just as I realize another irritant factor. I have left the heat blasting in the bigger part of the house for nearly an hour, where no one is or intends to be this evening. I rush out of my dimly lit office into the dark living room, straight for the heater. From out of the heat and dark erupts a terrible sound like I've heard in the song The Devil Went Down to Georgia—you know, where the devil takes his turn playing the fiddle—and my left foot has kicked something solid and my right has stomped on something squishy.
Yowser. I had to spend the next fifteen minutes soothing my cat Sparkle, because after the murder attempt--that's how she sees it anyway--while she innocently rested in a blast of hot air, she had an overwhelming urge to move out. Promptly. For safety reasons. She limped to the door each time I set her down and I believe she's cowering there still.
I feel like crying, having abused all of my pets, but instead the story Animal Farm flashed through my mind and I laughed (silently—crazily). I really enjoyed that story, on all kinds of levels, the satire was primo. But no, this is an Animal House, here on 18th, not a farm. And I would be wise to remember this before I am turned in for animal abuse.