After Cozette La Cerva came and went from our lives, I’ve been thinking a lot about my own three black cats, Boo, Goo, and Fuzz, all male. I don’t talk about them much. I don’t write about them at all. They seem to know this. Every once in a while, I swear they eye my computer, wondering when I’m going to give them a little space because, of course, they deserve it. Since they are very much a part of our lives at the Farnival, they shouldn’t feel excluded.
Read MoreMeadow has been at the Farnival for almost a month, and we’ve only had one incident of severe separation anxiety, but it was pretty impressive. Last week I was away from home for a block of seven hours, which is very rare. Before I left, I individually crated our foster animals, Meadow, Bentley, and Cozette in the spare bedroom, shut the door so the rest of my pack didn’t have to hear Bentley squawking in protest, and opened the window because Cozette’s litter box stinks for hours if I don’t clean it immediately after she uses it.
Read MoreI make the mistake of reading Donna’s email before I start a paper that’s due in two days for my graduate work with Doug Glover at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. It’s early. The sky is still black and my reflection in the glass is the only thing I see when I look out my window. Everyday I set my alarm for 4:00 AM so that I can write for two to three hours before the seven dogs and four cats living at the Farnival rouse.
Read MoreThis is my first non-animal post. I’m breaking the law because a lot of folks ask how the Farnival earned its name. I’m honored that you guys even give a poop. Unfortunately, the story isn’t that exciting. Eight years ago Pidge and Beej drove from Charlotte to Nashville for a weekend of music and football. The night they arrived we celebrated by drinking way too much beer at our fire pit playing word games. In the midst of our revelries, I meant to say either Farm or Carnival, but I blurted out Farnival. And it just stuck. I don’t know why.
Read MoreEdited by J2.
Read MoreIt was the third week of October 2009, a Monday. Smoke billowed from the tin roofs of the tobacco barns, infusing the air with its spicy scent. Red, orange, and yellow leaves glimmered like jewels in the sky, some raining downwards from the branch-draped ceiling. Autumn was my favorite season in Cedar Hill, Tennessee.
Read MoreWinter, 2001, Davidson County, Tennessee:
My buddy Butch lived with a professional racecar driver that I’ll call Bobby Dickhead for the purpose of this story. Butch phoned me one afternoon.
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