As hard as I’ve tried to capture a shot with the 3 of them together, there is something quite unsettling about the picture Greg got last week. We didn’t pose them…he just found them this way…doubly unsettling. Or maybe, triply unsettling.
Look at them. It’s hard to even put words in their mouths. It’s like the only thing missing from this picture are 3 tiny cowboy hats and shotguns. I feel like I walked, rather unwelcome, into their saloon, and they’re about to say, “There just ain’t enough room in this town for the 8 of us.” Which, to be fair, is an accurate statement. 4 people, the occasional cousin, and 3 cats is a helluva lot for any house. I live in a perpetual stampede zone.
The old Trifecta was more funny than frightening. But now? I can’t say I’m certain I trust this gang. Syd is 11, and has nothing to lose at this point in her 16 lb life. Dagny is so tyrannically fearless, I’m certain he’d attack a pit bull if given the chance. And Cyrus? My old pal Cy? He’s turned on me. Dags has undomesticated this once placid cat. He’s a powder keg, ready to blow. If something happens to us, tell the police the truth: the cats did it.
From left to right: Dagny “The Kid” Taggart, Sydney “The Cleaner” Bristow, Cyrus “Sure Shot” Johnson. Oh crap, just look at their names: Taggart, Bristow, and Johnson. If that doesn’t sound like an old Western Gang of Bandits, I don’t know what does. WHAT HAVE WE DONE?!
P.S. The girls and I had a blast in St. Louis, but as Greg likes to say after I do too much with our kids, “Oh honey, look: you’ve gone and broken the babies again.” They are now moaning in restless exhaustion in their beds, and it may take a day or two for me to un-break them. Stay tuned.