I was in the garden last night, and there was a lot of noise down the street coming from a bunch of kid anthros who, if I know my chickens (so to speak) were crock-ohed. Meaning plastered. Meaning, in French, ivres, meaning in English, drunk.
Hey, I know that kids drink. They certainly drink more than kitties, that’s for sure, and mama will only let me feel the bubbles in a spritzer or glass of champagne, and frankly, booze is not my gig, but to return the favor, I let her sniff my catnip.
I certainly don’t want a tipsy teenager fooling around with me—they do weird things when they are on the moon and sometimes, it’s to kitties….
Maybe alcohol has taken the place of grass, or maybe they just mix them all together and down whatever that is and wait for the brick to hit them in the head so they can pass out.
Fun? Not to me, but then I’m still a teenager, sort of, and that stuff in glasses or bottles or pumps just doesn’t appeal to me. Besides, I grew up in France, and years ago, when mama and papa were coming here and to Italy, they used to admire the way the French and Italians showed their children the pros and cons of vino while they were young. There was evidently wine with lunch or dinner and kids got a little taste of it, if they wanted it at all, and little by little, they got used to what it did, how they felt, and learned not to abuse it.
But times have changed. Mama noticed some years ago that in Rome, the kids at the Campo de’ Fiori, where ados gathered each night to meet and greet, were drinking mostly beer and there was very little trouble with the crowds. Then, the crowds starting getting rowdier, the kids started drinking hard stuff, and of course, there was always a little perfume of grass in the air along with the shouts and hollering and broken bottles and fights and more.
She told me that just a few years ago, the police had to start coming in every weekend, and just last year, a kid was knifed in the piazza, something unheard of in mama’s and papa’s experience in their favorite city. That made them both very sad.
All I know is that the stories I hear about kids drinking until they are stupified, falling down, throwing up (echhh—and they don’t even have hair balls!), and in general, seriously harming their health are stories that reveal something about what these kids might really long for and need in their lives.
Love, maybe? Attention, maybe? Caring parents? Being seen by others, really seen? Maybe not being bombarded from every corner of their adolescence by violent movies, video games, porn everywhere, requirements by their peers to join in the drunkenness or look like a ninny? Be ostracized?
We kitties are lucky. We don’t have peer groups or anyone, for that matter, making us do what our bodies and little pea brains tell us is not good for us. We go our own ways. We have power that way. We do what we feel is right and to hell with the rest. We ROCK!
And it doesn’t take a gallon of booze too many times a month to make us feel like rulers of our roosts (so to speak). Have you ever seen a household where kitty was not king? No way…
But of course, if I had known when I was young what I know now…nah, forget it. Kids do what they do in every generation, and this one just happens to be soused.
But I wish so much it weren’t. I’d like to see them live to ripe old ages, and at this rate, they may not.
NOT drunk. Just resting….
