So I’ve managed to contract the most horrendous case of poison sumac in the history of mankind. Thank heavens we’re at home. I’m fairly certain George would have long ago left me in Albuquerque had he not been able to get more than four feet away from me for the past week. He and the children have been sliding food across the floor with a stick and running in fright, lest I trap them with one of my whining fits and possibly accidentally touch them, thus transferring the eternal funk to their lily white skin.
The cats haven’t forsaken me, though I wish they would. We have an old farmhouse, surrounded by cornfields — there’s plenty of mouse work for three cats. But no, they prefer to lollygag around on my bed, leaving hair piles to stick to the Caladryl lotion I’m covered in, because that’s what cats do. Exactly the opposite of what you want them to do.
Either the Benadryl is working its magic, or a profound sense of clarity has come over me. I think I know how to end the crisis in the Middle East. We round up about 9,000 stray cats and all the poison sumac in Mississippi, cram it all into one of these gigantic Starlifters that cruise over our house occasionally, and drop a pile of angry, poison sumac-covered cats right square in the middle of the hot zone. They’ll immediately seek out all the embedded Taliban and rub the foul oil on their ankles, causing an epidemic breakout of itchiness so horrific they’ll surrender to any terms, as long as we send Benadryl and skin-soothing creams. And unicorns will fly free across the rainbow-covered sky.