George the Kitten is on a tear. He’s been tearing for the last half hour. He chased three-times-his-size Binks into the laundry room twice, then started leaping off Pete’s crate and almost landing on Joe’s back. I’m pretty sure he wants to *actually* land on Joe’s back, and will, eventually, pull off this feat of derring-do. I can only hope I have a camera at the ready when George goes for 8 seconds.
The grown-up animals are in a tizzy. A dither, a pother, a sweat, a stew.
Joe, Alpha and King of the House, has made a few growling lunges, only to be batted on the nose and repelled. Pete, Beta and King of my Lap, is hiding there. Binks has retreated to the desk and is staring down at the Tasmanian Devil Kitten with grave concern. I get the impression they’d like me to intervene, but I say, “It’s a jungle out there, boys, and this kitten is The Law.”
There is now a brief intermission while George beats the table legs into submission. They are defying him, and he will not have it. Once he’s slain them, he can perhaps be convinced to rest, though I’m not holding my breath.
Speaking of breath and rest (since I’m rambling tonight), this afternoon, I got a glimpse into the world of psychological manipulation that is Jake the Exercise Guy’s mind. For those who don’t know, for the last year, I’ve been subjecting myself to The Gym with Jake. It’s not exactly Crossfit, though it’s kind of like Crossfit…essentially there are a bunch of middle-aged ex-D1 athletes and me…in a gym. And there’s Jake, and he tells us to do ridiculous things that no one in their right mind would do on their own, and we do them, and sometimes I don’t finish last.
But I digress. Today, Jake had us doing ridiculous things as fast as we could for 2 minutes. There were many ridiculous things — “take this dumbbell and hold it on your shoulders and step up on this giant box” and “take this other dumbbell and swing it above your head and then lunge backward without falling over” and “fall on the ground then leap to your feet swinging yet another dumbbell over your head” — the list went on.
And here’s the thing. In between he gave us a few seconds of rest. And it fooled you. The number of seconds of rest was actually, logically, not enough to accomplish anything. You could not retrieve your heart rate from the stratosphere. You could not stop breathing in that weird way that, on the street, would make some off-duty nurse stop and make you sit with your head between your knees. You could not — but the thing is, you *thought* you could. It was just enough rest that, in the midst of flinging yourself to the floor like a 19th-century lunatic in a padded cell, some part of your brain would tell you, “Fling away! After all, in a minute we get *all that rest*!”
So fling you would, as, all the while, the logical part of your mind kept screaming through the adrenaline fog, that, “NO IT’S ALL A LIE, STOP! STOP NOW.”
We did not stop. We were hoodwinked. Duped, suckered, cozened, and double-crossed.
And now I’m watching Binks watching George. It seems this fleeting respite from pouncing has done something to his brain. It seems that he believes if he jumps off the desk, he will be able to — I, oh…wow. Yeah. Look at ‘em go…sorry, Binks. I know how it goes, buddy. They fool ya.
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