I�m no saint. I resent these kittens for the obligation of doing my part to sustain their existence on a schedule that�s entirely unsuited to my social callings. I am not ready to be a parent. I wanted to take them to the Humane Society, where they would be cared for on the regular schedule they need, where they would have the resources they require. But Meg�s mom was not convinced. A few more days of patience, she believes, will find them drinking formula on their own right from the dish.

Last night I drove back past the spot where I found them. What I�d thought was a pile of newspaper in the ditch was really a box. I think someone dumped them and that the kittens spent the night huddled in the cornfield. They could have at least waited until the kittens were old enough to drink/eat on their own. Though I suppose one who would dump an animal is rarely concerned with whether it lives or dies.

I care, but I�m tired. Last night I was outdoors playing with the older kittens, when I heard the wee ones hollering. They�d heard my voice, and they wail when they believe people to be nearby. I was quiet, but kept playing in the rocks with Piggy, when Zippy appeared. He�d climbed out of his tall hay bale nest, through 2 horse stalls, and under a sliding barn door to come sit on my lap, all matted and stinky from the formula he spat out as he was fed. Sure, it was sweet. That don�t pay the bills.

However. Paying the bills is boring. We know this. Herr Z and I discussed a bit of this at lunch. When the day is done, when one returns to the home for which we pay these bills and is exhausted, what next? He�s volunteering at a shelter. Going to the gym. Reading. I�m generally eating frozen fruit pops, riding my bike and watching hours of reruns on the tele. Neither of us any the happier for our respective time-fillers. Stupid town. Jobs that make for a career are of no use whatsoever, save for paying the bills.

Bah.

Frankly I�m cranky that I�ll miss the fireworks in Bellflower in order to attend a barbecue in town. We�ll watch the big fireworks. But Bellflower, people. That�s what it�s all about. Let me tell you. See, in the evening they have a talent show, very small town, Waiting for Guffman style. Singing and dancing and such. It�s at the community park. And as twilight draws nigh, we pile into the bleachers around the ball field or drag our blankets and lawn chairs nearer to the field. At dusk, members of the local volunteer fire department begin setting off fireworks from the outfield, accompanied by music. Always Lee Greenwood�s �Proud to be an American� and Johnny Mellencamp�s �Small Town.� Never changes. They might mix it up with a few others, but that�s what we want. Fireworks last about 20 minutes, including a ground display of the flag. At the end, we all file over to the pavilion, where they hand out free cups of ice cream and those tiny, flat wooden spoons that remind me of birthday parties at the roller rink. Then we get in our cars, complain about the 4.3-minute traffic jam, and head home. That�s what the holiday means to me. Maybe Jeremy would agree to leave the barbecue early and accompany me to Bellflower. But I�d feel like a jerk, so instead I�ll go and resent it.

Oh, let�s be truly honest. Most of the grumbles today are a direct result of my failure to locate one of my favorite open toe black sling back pumps this morning. These shoes do not work. That�s where it all starts.

But now it�s time to feed Zippy, Thirsty, Crusty and Road Rash. Poor wee monkeys. They don�t give a rip about my shoes.