Pets, punches and Polly

This morning, since the world hadn't ended yet (of course, despite the doubters, I can't be utterly sure until 6pm, but I'm sort of thinking that I'll get a heads up if the Apocalypse is making its way around the globe as each region turns into the 6pm doomsday time slot) I went into town and gleefully paid a trained professional to torture one of my cats. At least I'm sure that's how Polly interprets our visit to the vet. As far as she's concerned, the next 5 days of saline washes, antibiotics, and confinement to the writing room will be the equivalent of a thousand years of fire and brimstone.

Apropos animals and this latest of EOWs, I'm impressed by this bit of capitalist exploitation reported in one of the links:

An enterprising New York business is offering to take care of the cats and dogs of those who believe that their Lord will take them to heaven without their pets.

My antipathy towards Doomsday mongers goes way back - when I was a little girl, a man lugging a sandwich board accosted me while I was outside playing and preached a loud and fiery message about my worthlessness and my heavy burden of mortal sins (many of which I didn't understand - I was 8 years old! - but I remembered and understood later) and explained what was in store for me in glorious detail. He scared the beejeezus out of me until he was shooed off, and I had nightmares for weeks after.

I know now that he probably had mental health problems, but nonetheless, I've always wanted to hunt him down and punch him in the nose for picking on a little girl like that.