Go Fish Galvez

Okay, so this past weekend, I was sitting around talking to Wilson, and …

Wait, no. That’s not right. Not Wilson. No, it wasn’t Wilson. Couldn’t have been Wilson, now could it? I mean, he floated away, right?

No, this wasn’t Wilson. But it was someone who reminds me a good bit of Wilson, and thus my confusion.

Not that his face is red or even that he’s actually a soccer ball. No, this guy’s face is black and he’s really a cat, although the size of his head, now that he’s all grown up (the picture below is of the supine zombie kitten), is very nearly that of a league-legal softball. And his name isn’t Wilson either. It’s Jeepers.

Still, there is a very definite resemblance here, don’t you think? Something about that enigmatic, impenetrable, full-eyeballed stare, which might be either stupefyingly vacuous or deeply reflective, depending upon the viewer.

Most striking of all, though, is the very frozenness of this curious expression, immutable in the case of Wilson but damned near for Jeepers, too, notwithstanding the profundity of any given line of discourse I (or Tom Hanks) might proffer. Kinda gives me the willies, in fact. Which brings me to Jeepers’ brother. That would be Willys (ahem).

No Einstein himself, and not even a real brother [except in the sense that (a) they were both sprung from the same pound, (b) they both live with me, and (c) I define my own reality, thank you very much], Willys seems to have a somewhat more expansive synaptic range than Jeepers, which, of course, is not saying a great deal.

Which reminds me of an exchange I had with my dad years ago concerning the relative intelligence among the various breeds of dog. I remember remarking to him about a book I’d read in which the dog-expert author rated the poodle, I think it was, as the smartest of the dog breeds and the, what was it?, Afghan hound or some such as the least intellectually endowed, to which my dad opined, in his uniquely idiomatic way (translated here for the larger public), that in any case he didn’t expect the point-spread between the two extremes of canine IQ to be statistically significant. Match point, Peepmeister.

But I digress.

Okay, so this past weekend, I was sitting around talking to Wil…lys and Jeepers. And I told those two worthless cat-boys that they’d better get ready to pack their Pounce ’cause we’re gearing up to head on down to Old Galvez, Ike and his ilk be damned.

Homeward bound, I wish I was. Homeward bound, hopefully by summer.