Yesterday evening I returned from a weekend in Culpeper, Virginia with Kris. Data collection (her job for the Click It or Ticket campaign in which she stands on street corners and counts how many drivers and passengers are wearing seatbelts versus not) takes her on many weekend trips across Virginia, so whenever I'm in town, I like to accompany her.
So yes, I'd like to live in Orange County eventually. It's beautiful with its wide green lawns and hills contained with dark brown, black, or white 3-plank fences, the lovely warm bovine odor, and horses and feral cats in abundance. Isn't it soul-freeing when your eye is allowed to wander, unchecked by development or industrial progress? It's restful.
I met the feline love-of-my-life in Orange. His name is Triscuit because he's the color of Wheat-Thins, only "Wheat-Thin" is not really an adequate name. I was closing the car trunk when I turned around and saw that Kris and I were being observed by this lonely creature sitting amid the tall waving weeds, sitting cooly and assuredly and yet somehow mischievously. In the next several minutes he crept closer in, never venturing too far from his safety net of bushes, as if he were an early maritime explorer and the bushes were his shoreline; he could always retreat if these two girls turned out to be monsters. Anyhow, we weren’t, and he spent the next hour rubbing his body against our legs, arching so much that he would fold himself into somersaults and then, twisting, would flop his legs open, inviting us to stroke his tummy. He batted at the paper from my sandwich wrap, ripping into it with his little pin-prick nails and poked his head up through the slats of my fold-out chair. He was so frisky and so social. When Kris and I had to go, he seemed to bid us goodbye, thanking us for visiting his realm. Then he darted back into his weed-filled abode, ready and waiting to capture the hearts of others. Dear dear Triscuit.