There is hardly a cloud in the sky today. A beautiful (but very cold) northern winter day. The only clouds above aren't even worth mentioning, just little tremors of lingering water vapor. Just enough to remind one that the sky above is often ruined by those pernicious fuckers. But not today... today, the blue alone wins.
I miss Frisco. I have been devising of ways to get him back, arranging scenarios in my mind in which, under dense cloud cover, we would re-abduct him, enter him into the feline witness protection program, assign him a new identity, move him from safe-house to safe-house… Wait! Frisco's a she, so a sex-change makes the most immediate sense to conceal her identity. I wonder how much such a thing costs. Never mind the cost, it's worth it.
Perhaps some research is needed here though, before we strike.
I wish that Rachel and myself didn't have to work today, or ever again. I would take her out cloud-hunting. She is my favorite cloud stalker. Sometimes we bag as much as a bursting skyful in a single season, though often stopping for coffee and beer breaks helps, as is shown in the picture below when we were hunting the infamous Brooklyn billows:
I took Barkley out bar-hopping for his 3rd birth-doggy-day (21 in human years, legally able to drive drunk now if he chooses)... The picture below was taken just before we went out. The "after" pictures are too shameful for a respected journalistic site like this. I will save them for a more late-night post when my daytime readers will perhaps be asleep.
Barks is an invaluable asset to any serious cloud hunter. Whether we use cloud baiting, calling or flushing he stands eagerly at wait while we take those shapeshifters down. Once the clouds have been clipped he merrily retrieves and bags them, never destroying the delicate cotton pelt or gilded linings.
Not to fear: we use the entire cloud product as either food, shelter, clothing or commerce.
(Barkley: adult male billow-killer)
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