True, one of my nephews pointed out that it was “silly”
because it had wings and bunnies don’t fly, but I dismissed him as being too literal.
Babycakes spied that winged bunnything, and he said to himself, “bunnymites.” To himself he said, “If I leave that thing alone,
then next thing I know she’ll be bringing live birds in here.”
And he slew that bunnymite.
Repeatedly.
I would have to say that bunnymite is as dead as anything made of cotton and quilt batting can get. Once I caught him dragging
my again-dead bunnymite between his legs to his condo, like a lion hauling his kill back to his lair.
“Can you do that to an innocent bird?” Annie asks me.
The best image I can conjure is a feline afternoon amusement called “Leaping for Cockatiels,” which involves Sir Babycakes
vaulting from the couchback to the cage and clinging like a huge, homicidal cover; to be quickly followed by “Bowling for
Cockatiels,” in which Nicky and Babycakes take turns rolling the bird cage, torn by sheer cat-weight from the ceiling, along
the floor from room to room while Mr. Chaplin exhausts himself just trying to stay upright and away from the edges.
It’s hard to convince myself this would be more fun than walking behind the pet shop counter and beaking that store clerk
on the ankle.
the southwest michigan jaguars
I NEVER WANTED to play football. I never wanted to fight in Vietnam. (I mention that because it was one of the other options not open to
women when I was planning my life.) I never spent a minute of my life envying men for their football skills or their ability
to get shot, and I ruled out both as possibilities for myself for about the same reasons. You could get hurt. The fans were
fickle. There was way too much controversy involved for someone as ambivalent as I was to choose that path.
As far as I know, any woman my age who actually played football did so because she had brothers who were either tolerant beyond
their times or trying to kill her. We were allowed to use the gym on evenings six weeks out of the year to play intramural
volleyball (if the boys weren’t using it). Period.
Later Title IX came along and the quality of men’s sports was compromised forever by the odd assumption that girls were entitled
to explore as many life options as boys. Apparently now in some schools there actually are women’s varsity football teams.
I don’t often watch football. It’s a brutal sport. Beyond the obvious bumping and slamming on the field, there is me in the
grandstand shouting, “Kill him!” or “If you can’t outplay him, hurt him.” Football does not showcase my best qualities. And
the overall camaraderie of the fans has never been quite the same since they made us stop passing the cheerleaders over our
heads.
So earlier this spring my Beloved announced our area was developing a women’s football team, and we were required to go immediately
to the nearest field and wait for them to play.
I said, “Why?”
This was wrong. I should have said, “Oh, great—let’s go show our support for women younger, stronger and more determined than
we are. Perhaps if we’re quick enough, we can carry a wounded one off the field.”
Last night my Beloved organized a small group of friends and we attended the first ever game played by the Southwest Michigan
Jaguars. They played an orange-and-white team from Detroit. They got creamed 34 to 16. The score, however, is beside the point:
they got out there, they played their hearts out, and in the second half they pulled their offense together and got two touchdowns
AND a two-point conversion. They stood around and had their pictures taken. They came back to the showers and a crowd of devoted
fans who had waited for them. They sold out the seating in the bleachers. It was a good game.
I think if I had ever wanted to play football badly enough to pay $500 just to try out, if I had made the team, if I had
because it had wings and bunnies don’t fly, but I dismissed him as being too literal.
Babycakes spied that winged bunnything, and he said to himself, “bunnymites.” To himself he said, “If I leave that thing alone,
then next thing I know she’ll be bringing live birds in here.”
And he slew that bunnymite.
Repeatedly.
I would have to say that bunnymite is as dead as anything made of cotton and quilt batting can get. Once I caught him dragging
my again-dead bunnymite between his legs to his condo, like a lion hauling his kill back to his lair.
“Can you do that to an innocent bird?” Annie asks me.
The best image I can conjure is a feline afternoon amusement called “Leaping for Cockatiels,” which involves Sir Babycakes
vaulting from the couchback to the cage and clinging like a huge, homicidal cover; to be quickly followed by “Bowling for
Cockatiels,” in which Nicky and Babycakes take turns rolling the bird cage, torn by sheer cat-weight from the ceiling, along
the floor from room to room while Mr. Chaplin exhausts himself just trying to stay upright and away from the edges.
It’s hard to convince myself this would be more fun than walking behind the pet shop counter and beaking that store clerk
on the ankle.
the southwest michigan jaguars
I NEVER WANTED to play football. I never wanted to fight in Vietnam. (I mention that because it was one of the other options not open to
women when I was planning my life.) I never spent a minute of my life envying men for their football skills or their ability
to get shot, and I ruled out both as possibilities for myself for about the same reasons. You could get hurt. The fans were
fickle. There was way too much controversy involved for someone as ambivalent as I was to choose that path.
As far as I know, any woman my age who actually played football did so because she had brothers who were either tolerant beyond
their times or trying to kill her. We were allowed to use the gym on evenings six weeks out of the year to play intramural
volleyball (if the boys weren’t using it). Period.
Later Title IX came along and the quality of men’s sports was compromised forever by the odd assumption that girls were entitled
to explore as many life options as boys. Apparently now in some schools there actually are women’s varsity football teams.
I don’t often watch football. It’s a brutal sport. Beyond the obvious bumping and slamming on the field, there is me in the
grandstand shouting, “Kill him!” or “If you can’t outplay him, hurt him.” Football does not showcase my best qualities. And
the overall camaraderie of the fans has never been quite the same since they made us stop passing the cheerleaders over our
heads.
So earlier this spring my Beloved announced our area was developing a women’s football team, and we were required to go immediately
to the nearest field and wait for them to play.
I said, “Why?”
This was wrong. I should have said, “Oh, great—let’s go show our support for women younger, stronger and more determined than
we are. Perhaps if we’re quick enough, we can carry a wounded one off the field.”
Last night my Beloved organized a small group of friends and we attended the first ever game played by the Southwest Michigan
Jaguars. They played an orange-and-white team from Detroit. They got creamed 34 to 16. The score, however, is beside the point:
they got out there, they played their hearts out, and in the second half they pulled their offense together and got two touchdowns
AND a two-point conversion. They stood around and had their pictures taken. They came back to the showers and a crowd of devoted
fans who had waited for them. They sold out the seating in the bleachers. It was a good game.
I think if I had ever wanted to play football badly enough to pay $500 just to try out, if I had made the team, if I had
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