Plucky Letters to US soldiers in Iraq

Friday, October 17, 2003


Dear Justin,


How are you? Do you have enough Kool-aid, Ramen and Men’s Health magazines? (Those are the things Rob told me you like.) If you have any special requests, be sure to write back and let me know.

Our cat is driving me crazy tonight. She is a big fat thing. She’s huge, actually. Only her head is regulation cat-size. Her name is Mama Cat, which is odd, given she has produced not a single offspring in all the years I’ve known her. She has a gigantic body, the aforementioned small head, and short stubby legs. She closely resembles a hedgehog, but I like to think of her as a Catshound. (A “wiener cat” if you prefer the more commonly used breed identification terms.) If she were a dog, her name would be something like “Barney” or “Wilbur.”

Come to think of it, if she were a dog she would likely commit suicide.
It’s good she’s a cat and, therefore, immune to self-esteem issues of the sort dogs and humans must confront. To Mama Cat, thank goodness, every day is a good hair day. She believes she is precious and beautiful.

In fact, Mama Cat thinks she’s some kind of African Queen. She never goes anywhere beyond our fenced backyard, but, to her, that small expanse of grass and wildlife amounts to the plains of the great Serengeti. She thinks she’s a majestic predator: you can tell by the arrogant twitchings of her tail as she slinks around the yard pretending to stalk the pretend large game animals that hang around our pretend watering hole. Sometimes she even pretends to chase the weakest of the pretend gazelles that she pretends are bounding, gazelle-like, across our backyard.

Sadly, Mama Cat reveals her true cowardly nature anytime our friendly neighborhood rabbit happens to nonchalantly hop across the lawn. When this happens, she runs like hell to take cover under the deck. She gets that “Holy Shit, it’s THE TERRORIST!” look on her face and won’t come out until I scare the Big Bad Osama Bunny away.

Tonight Mama Cat is constantly begging to go outside. I open the patio door and she poses there, half in/half out, trying to do a detailed visual reconnaissance. As if I have all night to stand there and wait for her to decide there really are no enemy snipers or feral rabbits in the immediate vicinity of our deck. After about 30 seconds of this I get pissed off and simply shove her out the door.

She crouches there, just outside the door like a cowardly sphinx. After much consideration, she turns and takes a sudden fat flying leap to get back inside, which causes her to then hang by her claws in a very unattractive fat cat crucifixion pose from the screen door, and I wish I’d had the presence of mind to leave her hanging there long enough to get a good photograph of it.

Mama Cat is only truly happy when she’s inducing paranoia in our neighbor’s dog. She likes to stroll back and forth along the fence when the dog is out, just to provoke him into a canine frenzy. Nothing makes her day like inciting that dog to froth at the mouth. It’s illogical- she’s scared shitless if a rabbit hops across the yard, but she will spend entire afternoons baiting this huge monster of a German Shepard. Somehow she knows he’s restricted by law and neighborliness from tearing her head off.

Once in awhile she manages to slip out the front door, and then she is in heaven. A whole new world exists in the front yard. I think she is fully aware that our next door neighbor believes in enforcing the leash law for cats. Mama never feels more alive than when she is loose in the front yard. When she can get out front she mentally puts on a “Born to be Wild” T-shirt and struts down the driveway like she’s the Tina Turner of cats.

Then I yell, “Mama! Come back here!”
She always comes, but she acts like it was her idea.

Be careful, Justin. Think like a cat.

Much Love,
--An Army Mom

August 14, 2003

Dear Rob & Buddies,

I took Dylan to the dreaded Wal-Mart today for Back-To-School supplies.
We took our 5th grade list in hand and bravely entered the Back-To-School area of that massive and misarranged store. I was distressed to find the aisles crowded with many other Wal-Mart shoppers. Most of them appeared to be 37 year-old grandparents of loudly misbehaving children sporting uncombed hair and days-old Kool Aid mustaches. I’ve never seen such a ubiquitous need of dental work in my life. (The kids could benefit from some serious brushing and flossing, too.)

The good news is that Dylan is a real Wal-Mart trooper. I really appreciate his ability to adopt my Wal-Mart combat attitude with solidarity and enthusiasm.
I say, “MY GOD, this place is an absolute TRAVESTY!”
Dylan says, “Yeah! And it’s hard to shop here!”
I say, “What is WRONG with them that they can’t just put all the needed supplies in pre-packaged kits based on the school supply lists and make it easy for the customers to shop here, thus increasing customer satisfaction and ensuring next year’s sales growth?”
Dylan says, “Yeah! And it’s hard to shop here!”
I say, “Oh, hell, we have to get out of here as soon as possible because many of our fellow shoppers probably have contagious parasitic diseases we ought not fool around with.”
Dylan says, “Yeah! And it’s hard to shop here!”

I couldn’t agree with him more. Our Dylan is one savvy Wal-Mart customer.

Much Love,
--Mom