What if it Snows?

Well…. Never mind. I got nothing nice to say

 

Say something nice and U could get the Iggy Tag removed

 

On a street not too wide and a hill not too tall,
Lived a fat little cat who was known by them all.
Her whiskers were wiggly, her belly quite round,
And whenever she walked there was thumpity sound.

This cat loved to snack from morning till night,
On pickles and noodles and pie with a bite.
She munched in the morning. She munched in the rain.
She munched on a train while she munched once again.

“I’ll try just one carrot!” the fat cat would say,
Then she’d nibble ten donuts that wandered her way.
She slurped up some soup and she gobbled some peas,
And once ate three sandwiches stacked up with cheese.

The townsfolk would whisper, “That cat’s quite a sight!
She’s rounder at breakfast and rounder by night.”
But the cat only chuckled and patted her hat,
For she rather enjoyed being fat like that.

One day she tried running from here to a tree,
But halfway she huffed, “Oh dear me, oh dear me!”
She plopped on the grass with a bounce and a splat,
And rolled down the hill went the rolly-round cat.

She rolled past a mailbox! She rolled past a shoe!
She rolled past a goat who said, “Maaaa—who are you?”
She rolled through a puddle and rolled through a hat,
Till she stopped with a bump—kerplunk!—went the cat.

The cat blinked her eyes and she started to grin,
With mud on her whiskers and pie on her chin.
“Well rolling is faster than walking,” she said.
“I think I’ll just roll home instead!”

So if you should see, on a hill or a flat,
Something rolling along like a wobbly round hat—
Don’t worry, don’t wonder, don’t ask “What was that?”

It’s simply the stroll
of the roll-happy soul—

That cheerful, round, rollicking fat little cat.

T Geisel.

 

Sissy. A full grown man afraid of a bug the size of a quarter. Turn in your man card.

 

The cat’s name was OM.

She was very fat. Not sick fat. Not sad fat. Just large in a way that meant she had lived a long time in a warm house where food came regularly and no one hurried her.

OM slept near the window.

In the morning the light came in slow and pale across the floorboards. She opened one eye and then the other. Moving took thought. First the tail. Then the paws. Her belly dragged the floor a little when she walked but she did not care.

E. Hemingway.
The bowl was in the kitchen.

The man filled it each morning. OM waited with the patience of something that knew the world would behave the same today as it did yesterday.

She ate slowly.

Outside there were birds. Small ones that hopped and argued in the yard. Once she had chased birds. That was when she was young and lean and the ground moved quickly under her feet.

Now she watched them with calm yellow eyes.

Sometimes the man laughed when OM tried to jump onto the chair. It was not easy work. She gathered herself like a large ship leaving harbor and made the effort. Often she made it. Sometimes she did not.

Either way she sat down and rested.

In the evening OM climbed onto the man's lap. She was heavier than she believed herself to be, but the man allowed it. She settled there like a great warm blanket.

Her breathing was slow.

The house was quiet.

And OM, who was very fat and very certain of her place in the world, closed her eyes and slept as if nothing important could possibly happen without her.

E. Hemingway.

 

The cat was named OM.

She was large. Not merely large by the standards of domestic felines, but statistically exceptional. If one had placed her upon a scale and compared the result with the average mass of the common house cat, the deviation would have been significant enough to interest a careful observer.

The careful observer, in this case, was Dr. Martin Hale.

Dr. Hale believed in systems.

He believed that the universe ran according to rules that could be understood, measured, and—given enough patience—predicted. His work involved complex models and elegant mathematics.

None of this helped him explain OM.

OM sat in the center of the living room like a furry planet. Her belly rested comfortably upon the floor. Her tail moved occasionally, with the slow authority of a pendulum marking time.

Dr. Hale watched her from his desk.

“You consume,” he said thoughtfully, “three times the caloric intake expected for a creature of your size.”

OM blinked.

This was not a contradiction.

The scientist adjusted his glasses and continued his analysis.

“You exercise very little. You pursue no prey. Yet your health indicators remain… acceptable.”

OM stretched one enormous paw forward.

The motion required several seconds and appeared to be the only physical exertion she intended to perform that hour.

Dr. Hale considered the data.

There were theories. Metabolic anomalies. Genetic variations. Statistical outliers. Each explanation solved part of the puzzle but not the whole.

Meanwhile OM waddled to the kitchen.

Her movement resembled orbital drift rather than locomotion. When she reached the food bowl she regarded it with the quiet certainty of a creature who understood the fundamental structure of the universe.

The bowl would contain food.

It always had.

It always would.

Dr. Hale followed her, notebook in hand.

“Remarkable,” he murmured.

OM began eating.

Outside, the stars moved through their silent equations. Inside, the fat cat continued her steady consumption of dinner with absolute confidence in the stability of reality.

Dr. Hale closed his notebook.

Some systems, he concluded, were best left unchallenged.

OM purred softly, like a well-tuned machine, and the experiment—if it could be called that—continued.

I. Asimov.

 

You sure somebody isn't reading too much??
I like my books too but not that much

 

Tain is coming. I have 40 minutes until I can leave and get back to the homestead.

 

A goose, you ever been chased by a goose, a rooster is easy. Geese are flat out mean.