Sniff Therapy

On my walk today, there was a street that smelled like wet pepper. A huge pepperwood towered over the block. Some kind of cherry-like trees bent over the sidewalk dripping their lacy white blossoms onto my head. Across the street was a gangly bush wild with orange flowers of a nearly neon hue. I walked slowly down that street, bathed in the scent of sweet wet blooms. 

A good antidote to the stink of cat pee that greets me everytime I open the door to our carport. The cats have launched a new offensive. Someone appears to be getting a little too used to the heat-and-motion sensor-triggered ultrasonic noise emitting CatStop that we had to install back in October. We do not have a cat. We only have other peoples' cats, and I have to say that, while I haven't been a big fan of cats since mine tried to kill my father, the repeated markings of Elan's stroller and my beautiful new washing machine have brought my feelings for the furry creatures of the neighborhood to a new low.

I'm going to save the rest of this rant for when I have more time and energy, as I'm still only partially unpacked from our trip. For now, I'm going to think about lacy blooms and wet pepper. But do not be fooled, cats of North Berkeley. You have not won.