Sorry for the gap in posts... No excuses, just spending a lot of time on other things.
But let me bring you up to date.
First, the kitty.
Isn't she pretty? She's coming right along. She is still skittish--I don't think we quite realized just how close to feral she was. She loves being petted and cuddled, but we still have to wrangle her to do so.
Here's Jeff, giving her a dose of socializing.
She also loves to play. For the first couple of weeks with us, she didn't do much other than hide. In that time, though, she managed to find just about every toy of Shelly's that the late divacat had batted underneath dressers, the buffet, etc., never, we thought, to be seen again. But Mifune found them all, I think! And she would play with them when she thought we weren't looking. Well, we've made great strides!
Now she will play with balls and little things we toss or roll to her, and she will also play like crazy with her favorite toy, the stick with the bell and feathers on it. Jeff has given it a name: the Giant Claw (in honor of the MST3K-caliber film of the same moniker). She goes CRAZY on the Giant Claw, jumping and darting and trying to fake it out--and even ambushing it.
She also has started following us around the place, but she freaks and runs away when we let on that we know she's there. She's like the little kids who go into the haunted house, I think--she's testing her mettle, satisfying her curiosity, and getting a great rush from being scared. What can I say? She's an adolescent.
She came through her spaying just fine--never seemed sore or irritable and had no complications whatsoever with the stitches.
We got her this queenly cat bed in anticipation of her returning a bit under the weather from her surgery, but aside from this photo-op and plenty of catnip strewn in it, she prefers sleeping under our bed amid our overflow of guitars and enough shed white fur to make up twelve Shellys. Needless to say, we haven't yet gotten around to clearing up that part of the house. I mean, the rest of the place is hard enough to keep neat (as if).
So, you may well be thinking that we don't do anything in our free time but attend to Mifune, but you'd be wrong! We spent a lovely but chilly weekend in Normal visiting Greg and shopping (as always when there) in every chain store known to man. The suede duffle coat I bought fifteen years ago in anticipation of my solo trip to the Grand Canyon (it was November; I knew it would be cold...sure enough, it snowed) finally bit the dust--the left sleeve just ripped for no reason that I could see. So, I ended up at Kohls, searching for a new winter casual jacket. Lucky for me that I had a 15% coupon and the coat was already 60% off. What a deal!
But the highlight of the weekend was something far more exciting and disturbing than shopping! It was ULTIMATE FIGHTING.
Greg and his flat-mates and other assorted friends invited us to share their reserved table at Bloomington's Hooters-wannabe sports-bar where for $3 a head we could take in the pay-per-view match of the century so far: the reigning heavyweight champ Randy Couture
pitted against a behemoth named Brock Lesnar.
That's the back of Greg's head in the foreground, chin on hand. The screen action is the preliminary to a lesser bout, several of which took up time before the big event. By the time we got to the championship match, I was too much in the moment to snap any pictures, alas!
Ultimate Fighting is a hybrid of Greco-Roman wrestling, bare-knuckles boxing, kick-boxing, and any other martial art you can imagine. It's really no-holds-barred and looks a lot like a street fight translated into an arena. Greg and his buddies were firmly in the Couture camp. They were in awe of Couture's strategic advantage and staying power--he is in his mid-40s, which is really old for this type of sport. Lesnar is more a freak of nature--a really muscle-bound dude, which makes his head seem really small in comparison with his body. He has one of those brow ridges that suggest that Neanderthals may just have interbred with Homo Sapiens Sapiens. He is massive. And yet, he is very quick and agile. Quite an opponent. But I wanted the old guy to win, too. You have to stick by your peeps.
The first round appeared to go to Couture. He outmaneuvered the massive Lesnar and controlled just about every move that was made within the octagon (which is the shape of the ring). At one point, Couture punched Lesnar in that massive brow, and the giant began to bleed. I heard myself cheer "He's bleeding! He's bleeding!" Good grief. I'm not proud of that, but I was swept up in the moment! It was looking good for Couture. Brains v. brawn. And some blood. Yes.
But then... oh, but then... early in the second round Couture made a misstep, went down, and Lesnar pounced and pummeled the living crap out of the old dude. It was shocking to see how fast the monster's fist was flying. Lesnar won by knock out--and not a technical one, either. Sigh.
I was all set to hate the big lug. I expected him to be dumb as a post and all braggadocio and bluster when they put the heavyweight title belt around his waist. But he was very humble. He gave a lot of credit to Couture for being a role model and for fighting such a tough match. He was sincere and--dare I say it?--warm. Friendly almost. And fairly well-spoken. Hmmm. That will teach me to judge a guy based on his brow ridge.
Will I be shelling out for additional pay-per-view fixes of Ultimate Fighting? Nah. But if I find myself in Bloomington/Normal when there's another bout scheduled, I might go and share buckets of beer with Greg and his pals.
Oh, and this evening Mifune came up to me and rubbed her head against my hand, asking for petting. And she actually let me pet her on her own terms. A breakthrough!
Labels: Greg, Mifune, Normal, Ultimate Fighting