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A few weeks ago, people started saying they'd seen a kitten at the barn where I board my horses.  I didn't think much of it until about a week later, when I found a kitten in bad shape in a horse's stall.  It was mewing frantically as I rounded the corner, and when I spotted it, it was struggling to get up.  The horse's hind foot was hardly an inch in front of the kitten's body.

I ran into the stall to rescue the kitten, but soon after I picked it up, it went into a nearly comatose state.  It was barely breathing, its eyes were crossed and unresponsive, and the only sign that it was still alive was the feeble protest it sometimes made by opening and closing its mouth when I moved it around.  It was pretty clear the poor thing had been stepped on -- and only just before I arrived on the scene, too, if the frantic cries that drew me were any indication.

I rushed the kitten to an emergency vet, but even after an IV and a cocktail of drugs, it wasn't responding -- it was breathing a little more easily, and that was it.  After giving it a little time, I reluctantly gave the vet the go-ahead to euthanize the kitten.  As much as I wanted it to survive, I wasn't prepared to spend a thousand or more in emergency care for a stray kitten we weren't even sure would make it.

Even though I knew I had done all I could to save the kitten, and even though I knew I'd given it a more comfortable death than suffering on the floor of that horse's stall, it was a difficult decision to make.  I cried more than I thought I would, considering the kitten wasn't even mine.  But after having gone through that, when a friend texted me the next day to say that there was another kitten, I knew I had to make every effort to catch it before it suffered the same fate.

It took a few days and ultimately a feral cat trap, but we caught the second kitten.  Around this time, I also started hearing reports of a third kitten, which hadn't been seen in a while, and a momma cat, which was seldom seen but still around.

The kitten we did catch was scared at first, but very quickly got used to -- and even enjoyed -- being handled.  Now, a week and a half later, she happily seeks out attention.  She was clearly not a feral kitten -- at eight weeks, her age when we caught her, she would have had a much harder time getting used to people if that was the case.

It is pretty obvious to me that someone dropped off the momma and her kittens at our barn, probably because they didn't want to have to go through the trouble of finding homes.  They probably thought the momma cat and her kittens would become barn cats and live happily ever after.  I mean, what cat wouldn't love to run around catching mice all day?  Paradise for cats, right?

Wrong.  Not only do kittens have no idea that they have to stay away from horses' feet, kittens and adult barn cats have to be worried about being dinner for an owl, fox, or coyote (especially at a barn on the edge of an open space park, as mine is).  My mom looked it up and reported that the expected life span of a barn cat is only one to three years -- a fraction of what a happy, beloved indoor cat lives.

Being a barn cat can, of course, be a blessing for a feral shelter cat that otherwise will never be adopted.  But it's not a life for a cat that has previously had a home and a bowl of food to eat from every day.

This story has a happy ending for at least one of the kittens -- this little one has found a home with me, and will be spayed, fed, and loved for the rest of her life.  But one of her siblings has died, and her momma and at least one more sibling are unaccounted for -- likely dead.  Only one out of three (or more) survived more than a few weeks!  Does that sound like an ideal life to you?

The look on my face in the photo above is virtually a dead ringer to one in a photo from when I was fourteen sitting on the top deck of a boat cruising down the Hudson River on the cool evening of October 6^th, 1994.

The man taking the photograph was my father (whom I shall dub “Clyde Krebbs”). Below our feet were members of the … well, let’s call them the Hellman and McDermott families for sake of privacy.  

It was a night I do not have fond memories of. In fact, they pain me as much emotionally as the foot wound suffered by Lieutenant John Dunbar in Dances with Wolves did him physically; and writing about it for me is as difficult as his pulling a boot on over his wound. Nevertheless, here is the story:

We were in the Empire State for a wedding at West Point; the boat cruise was a party held after the wedding rehearsal, though my family did not take part in that.  Instead, we had drove south to Nanuet, New Jersey to get the present mom and Clyde were giving the bride and groom. Soon after we’d hit the road out of the Newburgh, New York, Holiday Inn, Clyde started a fight between him and mom which sizzled and burnt until it sputtered out by the time we’d gotten back to the Holiday Inn we were camped out at, but not before mom swore she was divorcing Clyde, much to the joy of my younger brother and my own shell-shocked astonishment.  

But the night’s toll on our souls was not over yet. Hell no. In fact, Clyde was just getting warmed up.  

After a feeble attempt at playing the good father when a young couple at the Holiday Inn made light of my wearing shorts on a chilly evening (“Just ignore them,” he said in a wan, almost detached tone that did not make me feel better) he started another fight by exclaiming “Which way do I go?” as he we drove to West Point for the post-rehearsal cruise.   Mom let him have it with both barrels because both of the white arrows showed you could get to West Point.  Even an idiot, you think, would have gotten that.   But he did it out of retaliation over mom’s divorce decree, the swine.  “Me, me, always about me,” was the motto of that bully, and God forbid if anyone else in the family had a say in things.

By the time we got on the boat, however, the fighting had ceased, and not even my grandma quietly observing to mom before we boarded that she and Clyde had been arguing brought the truth to the surface.   And the matter was moot by the time the lines were cast off and the boat headed south along the majestic Hudson River with the party atmosphere revving up until it was in full swing by the time we reached our turnaround point beneath the majestic Bear Mountain bridge; in fact, it was about this time things turned uproarious below decks with a jolly “Welcome to the family” ceremony for the groom consisting of a stunt right out of a screwball comedy: a pie with whipped cream right in the kisser.  

But I wasn’t there,   In fact, I was only below decks once where I snatched a piece of cheese and ham (or maybe two; my memory is dim) before promptly fleeing back up top.   Being a highly sensitive person, I was in no mood to party after all the vile crap Clyde had been pulling all day, and, truth be told, the news passed furtively from word-to-mouth amongst the younger people aboard about the pie-in-the-face ceremony did not help my mood either. 

I realized with alarm that the resultant roars of laughter and other rowdy noises made by the packed humanity below would only drive me bonkers, not warm my heart, thanks to a genetic quirk of super-sharp hearing that, when flooded with loud noises of any type, causes sensory overload to take place. So up on the top deck I huddled with fingers jamming earplugs deep into my ears to drown out the noise from below as the madcap ceremony took place. 

I wish I could paint the sounds of joy I heard with a more vivid pen in this memoir experiment, but the memory pains me so bad I cannot see past it because I was up there suffering while all those jokers below were having a good time, damn them! Sure, sure, they are innocent because they did not know, but my resentment remains like an embedded bullet.

Back to that photograph Clyde took of me.   He did it right before the pie ceremony.  Even the shell-shocked look on my face did not faze him, however.   He was just fine from the moment he got out of our Suburban, the skilled (but hopeless) liar that he was.    Not even my shell-shocked behavior concerned him, the SOB.   What if I embarrassed myself in front of the whole family by suddenly (but justifiably) flipping out in front of one and all over some harmless remark made by somebody who didn’t know me (or did know me, for that matter), or, worse, attacking him in front of one and all?   I already was a massive lad even at fourteen, standing 6’4 inches tall in my bare feet with a natural brawn to match.  I easily could have kicked him in the ass or nuts but good.

I swear there are times I wish I had done just that in retaliation for Clyde causing my misery on the Hudson.

This Monday, the San Francisco 49ers will meet the Arizona Cardinals at University of Phoenix Stadium in Arizona. The two teams are fighting for the division, but are headed in two totally different directions. The 49ers are 5-2 and have been winning with great defense, but a sketchy offense. Arizona has done much of the same, but has had key losses on offense that will make things tough for their continued success. Injuries at quarterback and running back have nearly crippled the team and a loss this week would all but seal their fate.

The 49ers come into the game after a 13-6 victory over the Seahawks last Thursday. They should be a little healthier after the long break and will look to extend their lead in the division by putting more space between them and the 4-3 Cardinals. A loss, however, would tie the two team’s records at 4-3. This would be especially disheartening for the 49ers that just got some space between them and the Seahawks with last weeks win. More confusing would be if both the Seahawks and Cardinals win this week. That would put the division in a 3-way tie.

The Cardinals certainly have an uphill battle to get a win away from home this week though. They will be missing Kevin Kolb again this week and have been rattled with injuries in the backfield as well. Larod Stevens-Howling did fill in well last week, however, gaining more than 100 yards on the ground while finding the end zone. Either way, Monday Night Football will teach us a lot about the NFC West this week.

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=== Game Recap, Dept. ===

Going into last year's June ammy draft, we M's fans were underwhelmed.  But if you read this pre-draft discussion of Zunino, you'll have to give SSI denizens their due.  Pre-draft they prophesied Jay-Z's and McNamara's comments about the pick; post-draft they echo'ed Jay-Z's and McNamara's comments about the pick.  These three things converged:

• Pre-draft SSI crunch
• Mariners' staff P.R. about Zunino
• Post-draft SSI crunch

All of these things lined up neatly.  In particular, Gordon's take on Zunino was a carbon-copy of what the GM and the scouting director had to say.

What did they have to say?  The same thing that G-Money did:  that if you can get a Charles Johnson, and there's nothing else better, that's what you do:

Tom: "He's steady. He doesn't jump out and wow you like other players. What you get at the end of the day is a steady, hard-nosed tough kid who has power and can really catch."

Jack: "He's a nice looking player. He's a tough kid. You think about that position. It's very difficult to fill it as we know and everyone in baseball knows. When you have a kid with the pedigree and leadership skills, as well as the chance to hit the ball out of the ballpark, I thought it was a real nice package."

Looking at the vids, Dr. D warned that the swing was All-Star caliber, notably for the way that Zunino consistently let the ball drive deep into the zone, and then the way he Mike Schmidt'ed down onto the ball to create loft and backspin.  

But we all agreed:  hey, he can catch, and he'll hit some homers, but .... big chance of his bat being a FAIL.

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=== And Then They Said Play (ZUUM)Ball ===

Zunino went to A- ball, just to get loose, and hit 10 homers in 29 games.  With 18 walks.  It's fine to wipe out a short league, but this guy was posting a .500 OBP and .700 SLG in the same style that Ryan Braun would, if you sent him to that league now.  Put a wooden bat in his hands and the ball seemed to go ... farther.

The M's moved him up to the high minors at AA Jackson.  From Day One he pwned 24-year-old pitchers who could throw breaking balls for strikes.  In two weeks he hit 3 homers, 4 doubles, slammed a .400 OBP and a .600 SLG.  It's fine too, to have a hot couple of weeks.  It's weird to put down a synthetic bat, to just "See Ball Hit Ball" and hit the ball hard and far, over the fence.

The M's then put him in the Southern League playoffs.  I don't remember his stats, but do remember that he hit several homers more and carried the Generals through the first round into the finals.

The M's put him in the Arizona Fall League.  Now he switched to trrrrrrrriples, Capt. Jack.  The guy has played in four different pro contexts, since college last summer, and swum around the lake like a freshwater shark all alone at the buffet.

.....................

We all feared, Draft Day, that Zunino's college bat wouldn't translate to wood and to located breaking balls.  Just 60 pro games on, all of a sudden that Mike Schmidt swing looks awfully 500-homer'ish.

Everybody, even the most die-hard No Cheering In The Press Box types, is asking "June or April?" for Zuumball.  Okay, we ax it.

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