Women hold secrets. Even if you think they don’t, they do. Planted deep within the wells of a woman’s soul hush-hush lingers. 

While God knows the inner and outer workings of my heart, the only living creature on earth who knows all my secrets is the cat. Therefore, my cat is granted diplomatic immunity and cannot be prosecuted for any action. It’s hardly fair and seems rather unreasonable. I don’t know why it is the way it is, except that I feel safe with him, the cat. I realize that if he went under the duress of interrogation (and he has), my surreptitious vault is safe and will ever be. You see, we have an understanding, the cat and I. So, from all women out there who share this clandestine indulgence, let me hear a “¡Viva el gato!”

No?

Oh. Well then, perchance I might have had an audience with Rainer Maria Rilke who expressed, “I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.” Instead of moving ahead of my time I might be lagging behind in a wish to commiserate with literary predecessors. Ha!

I’m aware I give the cat too much importance yet can’t seem to help myself. It’s both a weakness and a need (stupid cat). Therefore, his diplomatic immunity is a requirement. No questions asked.

There’s a very large Black Rat Snake living in my garage. When I first discovered him, I had opened my car door ready to hop out only to find him right there staring up at me with those unblinking eyes. I had almost stepped on him!—and it about scared the light out of me. 
 
But we’ve come to an understanding, the snake and I. You see, he favors my garage, molts, hangs out—literally, and is welcome to come and go as he pleases. I won’t try to kill him or ask him to get lost. In exchange, he keeps the rodents away…and very well, I might add.
 
Yes, it’s a nice arrangement, my garage his den, for everything works together for good. I’d rather have a rat snake nearby than a rat. I’ve named him Fig, either because his head reminds me of one or that I break into a few bars of “Figaro” whenever I see him. I can’t decide if he likes it or puts up with it. But we have an agreement, you see. My snake and the snake’s crazy human.
 
Figaro! Figaro! Figaro! ~ ~ ~ Figaro qua, Figaro là, Figaro su, Figaro giù...

My son and I stopped at the side of the road, hopped out of the car to see to a goat entangled in the wire fencing of its pasture. As I worked its horns and legs out of the mesh, we seemed to draw a small crowd - a few folks driving by, some who had been working in nearby yards.

A few minutes passed when my son questioned me about why people just stood there and weren’t offering to help us. I suppose I could have asked, but I was too focused on keeping my fingers from getting smashed before the goat decided to trust us. I muttered a quick, “I don’t know,” and went about business, finally freeing the animal from the fence.
 
Afterward, my son said, “Mommy, do you think God was pleased that we helped the goat?”
 
“Yes, son, I think God was pleased.” I held back my reflection on our little crowd of gawkers though. Really, the only thing missing was someone handing out popcorn and toothpicks so the spectators had something to keep their hands busy.
 
In that situation a goat one-upped people, for even the animal turned around and bleated what seemed like, “M-m-m-m-m-any thanks!” before it frolicked away and rejoined its herd.

I have a bleeding compassion for animals. I have a bleeding compassion for people, too. Yet I felt disappointed in humans at that moment. Animals disappoint less often. Stupid goat.