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Sunday, October 26, 2014

Swedish For Immigrants - Week 10

My Life – and welcome to it.

Monday: Phase two Swedish classes have begun. Wife had to have the car today. I took the bus. Should have been easy. Bus stop is in walking distance, and I’ve rode the bus to school before. Surprise. The bus stop shelter’s gone. There’s nothing left, no signs. The city has been messing with the streets, last chance before the snow falls I suppose. Had no idea if the bus still stopped in the same place, so started walking north to where I thought there was bus stop shelter. Half way there I saw the bus, now coming toward me – right on time. I started waving franticly, and by some minor miracle it stopped. The doors hissed open for me. Benefit of looking old? It’s just a fifteen minute ride to school.

There are ten other students in my ‘Slow’ class. All of them seem to be learning faster than myself. Most of them still fresh off the boat. Perhaps an advantage of youth, their memories not full yet. We started today’s class by telling our names, then each student repeated the names of the others aloud. I can remember a new name for about ten seconds, on a good day. I tend to berate myself for getting old age short-term memory problems, but in truth it was the same for me when I was twenty. Others in class seem to have no problem with it: Fahan, Nader, Nimca, Nura, Amina, Anab, Sanaa, Yusrqa, Sajidah, Abdullahi. Maybe they already knew each other – probably some did. At least I know my limitations and had written the names down as we introduced ourselves.

Tuesday: was easy, sort of. Practicing the alphabet – alfabetet. At last something I am vaguely familiar with, except a lot of the letters sound different, and ‘W’ is missing, they use ‘V’s instead. Ӧ and Ӓ are still a problem, seem to sound about the same. I have three teachers now, each one refusing to speak English. “We don’t speak Arabic, and we don’t speak English,” one of them told me. It’s for damn sure none of them speak Arabic, but seems like they could give me a boost with a couple English words now and then. I’m sure their way of teaching makes sense in the long run. I’m a round peg trying to fit a square hole. The new classes are being taught in three different classrooms, one for writing, one for listening, and one for conversation. So many words . . . so little time. Test coming Friday.

Friday: Bombed out on Swedish language test this morning. No surprise. As usual I had, at best, an 85% understanding of what the test would be about, 15% was a surprise. The Ӓs & Ӧs remained beyond my grasp. After ninety minutes listing to them pronounced on a computer program I still can’t seem to hear the subtle difference. Test teachers read the Swedish alphabet aloud. We were to write them down. I probably got 60% of the more familiar characters right, but was surprised by a page of diphthong-ish sounds, pö, py, sy, etc. They’d been sounded out and practiced in class for ten or fifteen minutes earlier in the week. I hadn’t paid that much attention after, so much else I’m struggling with.

It feels bad to fail these tests, and I feel bad about feeling bad, which doesn’t help. This was a big test, in a room I’d never been inside before, a modest auditorium decorated with photos and memorabilia of a famous opera singer, Jussi Björlilng, born in this small town.


There were better than a hundred of us seated for the test, from Africa and Syria, and Vietnam . . . just one American, yours truly. I think most who took this test will pass. Some will excel. Somali women in my class seem to speak Swedish pretty well, and have discussions with the teachers. Why are they here? To learn writing skills, I suppose. The Alphabet must be a quantum leap away from what they have grown up with.
Why am I here?

We had a half hour break time between two test sessions. Students gathered in small groups at tables and couches in a lounge area that has microwaves, and candy and coffee machines. There are Somali groups, and Syrian groups. Vietnamese occupied a couch. I’m envious of students hanging with their homeys. I feel so damn out of it sometimes–the only American within a quarter mile.

I’ve been missing America, the things I knew, familiarity of places and ways, a cognitive map constructed over years. Feel like a blind man in a labyrinth. America, that land of affluence and things obtainable, now less than years before, I guess, but still a damn good place to live, perhaps the best. A house of cards that defies gravity, survives financial earthquakes. Working class lose jobs and homes as money changes hands. Life tangos on, dance of diversions, ISIS, and Ebola . . . wars, assassinations and beheadings. Life on earth.

They think there’s been a Russian submarine submerged somewhere in Swedish waters. Navy here’s been looking for it this last week, and planned to force it to the surface, but they’ve given up now. “Russian underwater operation . . . plausible,” they say. I love one of the ships they have been searching with – HMS Visby, weird design. A stealth ship.

HMS Visby

It was not the first time this has happened. It’s a game that Russia plays. I have observed a sense of vague uneasiness, a Swedish gestalt of things and thought quite new to me. There’s nothing like it in the States. No worries Canada might jump us, or the Mexicans attack. But here, potential enemy is right next door, a big one who is still pissed off about wars fought a couple hundred years ago. There’s talk of Sweden beefing up its military, but it’s complicated. Russia supplies fuel to warm the Swedish winters . . . gasoline for cars.

Nothing is simple anymore, perhaps it never was. We didn’t know so much knew before these days of television, internet, and cell phones. Not sure what we really know today . . . what we are told–as always. Thoughts is passing as I waited in the lounge for session two.

“Sit here.” I’m taken by surprise. A young Somali girl has invites me to a place beside her on a hallway couch. We make awkward small talk. All my classmates are polite and friendly. Some of the Somali women have been looking after me.

“Time to go class.” They pull me from a book I’ve lost myself in, pointing to the proper room. We change classrooms every hour to be with different teachers. They are worried the ‘old man’ might lose his way. I’m happy for their help. Another benefit of age? I am by far the oldest person here. I’ve met one student in his forties, most are still in their late twenties, and I’ve learned my teacher’s father is years younger than myself.

What am I doing here?

Saturday, October 18, 2014

Amber's Swedish History - Chapter 10

Amber History 10

Erik Gets Married

Erik had ambitious marriage plans. He sent his ministers to proposition every single queen and princess they could find. Both Queen Elizabeth, and Mary Stuart (Scotland) turned him down. He fooled around with mistresses while waiting for a wife, and fathered several kids. One of the peasants who took care of them was red-haired Karin Månsdotter. She also gave birth to one of his children, Gustav, when she was sixteen.

Erik became more and more paranoid. He thought some of the nobles were plotting against him and had them thrown into prison. Four of them were murdered there. Then Erik disappeared. They found him wondering the hills with some serious mental problems. Karin Månsdotter was the only person able to calm him down. She finally got him calm enough to marry her in the cathedral at Stockholm in 1568. It was a good career move for Karen. She was now eighteen, and queen of Sweden.
Erik’s family and high nobility did not accept the marriage. This turned into a revolt led by two of his brothers. (Paranoia is often a heightened state of awareness.)

They surrounded the castle in Stockholm and Erik’s supporters decided it would be better to support someone else. Erik was force to hand over Jöran Persson (Erik’s Evil Genius – Chapter 9). The rebels had a good time torturing him, then chopped his head off. Jöran had it coming, then they killed his witchy mother for good measure.

Erik was deposed and spent the rest of his life imprisoned in both Sweden and Finland.
Karen almost went to prison, but the new King, Johan III gave her a nice estate in Finland. Erik was poisoned ten years later, and son Gustav died outside of Moscow.

Johan III 
Johan III

The fancy hat he’s wearing means he was a college grad, and had a doctoral degree. People still get doctoral degrees but the hats have gone out of style. Johan was fairly weird. He kept a silver hammer hanging from his belt and threw it at anyone who came with bad news. Sometimes he hammered on the table with it. He was smart, but impractical and clueless about money.
Johan III Copper 
Copper Coin From Johan’s Reign

Johan liked to build things. He assembled master architects and artisans and involved himself as much as he could in their work. They built castles in Stockholm, Kalmar, and Uppsala, and built churches everywhere. His wife, who was eleven years his senior, died when she was forty-six. He then married a sixteen-year-old, Gunilla Bielke.

Gunilla Bielke 
Gunilla Bielke.

Gunilla talked him into becoming a Protestant. He made many new rules about religious services. Clergymen were made to iron their shirts, stop wearing boots and spurs to church, and were no longer allowed to throw their caps and mittens on the altar. Johan built many monuments as well, and royal graves. He never worried about cost. The economy suffered. Inflation got as high as 100%, but nobody mentioned this problem to the Johan. They were probably worried about the hammer. He built more than any other king of Sweden.

When the Polish throne became vacant in 1587 Johan put forth his son, a crown prince named Sigismund, as a candidate. He was crowned in Cracow. Poles remember him as being stubborn, sluggish, and silent. Johan died in 1592, and Sigismund became King of Sweden.

King Sigismund
 Sig Coin
Sigismund Coin

Next Week – Sigismund and Civil War

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Poem by Joseph Mills

From: The Miraculous Turning - Published by Press 54

Posted on The Writer’s Almanac.

First Skating Party
by Joseph Mills
Dozens of kids circle
the worn wooden floor
on old rental skates,
and none of them wear
helmets or pads,
so when they collide
or fall or stop themselves
by the simple technique
of steering straight
into the cinder-block barrier,
you can feel the pain
of the parents
who watch from booths
by the concession stand;
they know their children
have bones of balsa
and skin that tears
as easily as a napkin,
but they can do nothing
except yell, Be Careful!
and make hand gestures
to slow down
—Slow Down!—
as the ones they love
strobe past them
faster and faster
just beyond their reach.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

Swedish For Immigrants - Week 9

Musings on a day off.

I did my language school interview today and have officially been assigned to the lowest level B class which is listed as, B-. I assume there is also a B, and a B+ class. The B+ class must be for students far ahead of me. Three teachers will be co-teaching classes. They will rotate and have specialties. One does reading, one does writing, and one does talking. I think the ‘talking’ teacher is the one who taught our class once before – the one who refuses to speak any English. It will be like learning German from an SS officer. But not a bad thing. Buddhist monks have written about choosing a master, someone who would pretty much take over their lives, in order to get them on their way to enlightenment. It’s like a marriage without the option of divorce. Some monks don’t choose the teacher they like best, one that they get along with. They chose the opposite, I guess thinking, “This bastard will make me learn.” I think there is some truth in that – the teacher without mercy.

Today was interesting. I drove to school some forty minutes early, for this morning’s interview, thinking I would hang out on the hallway couch and read while waiting. Teacher was in the hallway looking slightly pissed when I arrived, and looking for a student whose appointment time it was, the time slot before mine. Some students haven’t gotten used to the idea of being on time. Time hasn’t been all that important where they are coming from. Because they had more of it there. Perhaps more than they will ever have again as they become accustomed to ‘the good life’ and begin consuming, TVs, P/Cs, cell phones, houses, condos, furniture and cars . . . stuff. This 24-7 world, where it seems there is never enough time. I thought I would have so much time when I retired. Seems like I have less. Some of you will be familiar with that observation. Days fly away like crows at night.
Teacher asked if I would mind taking my interview early. I said, sure. We went into the classroom and took chairs at her desk. As usual I understood about 20% of what she was saying, but I was familiar with the subject. I was shown my test scores, average: 60%. Exactly what my own estimation has been.

She was enthusiastic, happy about my progress, asked what class division I thought I should be in, which of the three Bs. “Low, low, bottom!” I leaned of the chair and reached down to the floor. She got the picture, easily agreed, but in a complimentary way. She drew a graph of my scores, a line going up at a thirty degree angle. Easy to make progress when you start at zero. I am still so far away from understanding. I watch Swedish TV shows and news. Understand a word or two, like him and her, conjunctions, good and bad, the most common cuss words, and anatomy and clothing . . . Death is, Dod. I love it. Death is easy –  life is hard.

This missing student arrives fifteen minutes late. Teacher is up out of her chair – pissed off again. She tears loose a paper that has been tapped to the wall with the individual student’s times to appear for their interviews, a list in 36 point bold. She remanded us to look at it every day last week, and asked everyone if they understood. We all said, Ja. She opens the classroom door and lets go on this guy, who is also her best Student, who always has near perfect scores. Always the best in class. She whales into him in Swedish which, of course, I cannot understand. But he does. He will wait and take his interview when I leave.

Teacher comes back and removes a form from her basket, lays it on the desk. It’s her analysis of me, in Swedish. Once again I am clueless, but I get the drift. The one important thing is that I get into a SLOW class. B- will be fine with me. That’s about what I got out of college with. Looks like a done deal.

She walks me to the door when we’re finished, attempting to make small talk. Something about the next classes being mostly immigrants from Syria. That figures. I was watching TV news about Syria last week. Something like 100,000 we’re running from ISIS, fleeing the country, in an attempt to stay alive. Now Turkey has stopped letting them in. Guess they will all want to come here. I would if I were them, best deal available. Sweden or U.S. America first choice, of course, but Sweden is nice, good benefits and closer, and easier. The Somalis think I’m nuts for leaving the States; sometimes I agree with them.

I thought Swedish for Immigrants – Week 8, was going to be the last of these posts, but maybe not. They have become a sort of diary, or notes to something I might use later, or not.

Thursday, October 9, 2014

The Middle East Explained

The Middle East Explained
Aubrey Bailey

Are you confused about U.S. involvement in the Middle East? Let me explain.

We support the Iraqi government in the fight against the Islamic State. We don’t like IS, but IS is supported by Saudi Arabia who we do like.

We don’t like President Assad in Syria. We support the fight against him, but not IS which is also fighting against him.

We don’t like Iran, but Iran supports the Iraqi government against IS. So some of our friends support our enemies and some of our enemies are our friends. Some of our enemies are fighting against our other enemies, whom we want to lose, but we don’t want our enemies who are fighting our enemies to win.

If the people we want to defeat are defeated, they might be replaced by people we like even less. And all this was started by us invading a county to drive out terrorists who weren’t actually there until we went in to drive them out.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Contemplations - 4 Thoughts About War

Thoughts About War

Old men Howl like Ginsberg, into ears unturned. “Damn, things have gotten worse.”
I’ve been complaining about technology, but would not change things. Some have gotten better, material things, both good and bad. Hospitals and doctors can remove your heart, and put it back, or shoot you up with Botox, and goat cell injections. Thank God for modern dentists. You can talk to a friend ten thousand miles away and see their live image on a computer. I remember my dad telling me how it was to live with kerosene lamps for light at night . . . the smell. “Don’t tell me about ‘the good old days,’ he would say with a serious nod of his head.

These modern times ― modern, a transitive adjective.
“It would be a ridiculous and unwarranted presumption on our part if we imagined that we were more energetic or more intelligent than the men of the past―our material knowledge has increased, but not our intelligence. This means that we are just as bigoted in regard to new ideas, and just as impervious to them, as people were in the darkest days of antiquity. We have become rich in knowledge, but poor in wisdom.”                                                     Carl Jung ― Symbols of Transformation.

I’ve been thinking about war. I guess most of us have this last year. TV news and papers slam us with it every day.

Tricycle Magazine – on line:

“With the nascent multilateral air campaign in Iraq and Syria, war once again dominates the headlines and preempts diplomatic solutions. In the first installment of her new retreat, “A Zen Approach to Conflict,” Zen Buddhist teacher Diane Musho Hamilton puts it succinctly: “One of the most difficult challenges we have as human beings is our tendency to go to war.”

God only knows what’s going on, new weapons . . . drones. The crossbow was considered a weapon of mass destruction in the Middle Ages. Feared and hated because it was capable of eliminating anyone on the battlefield from great distances and allowed any low-born peasant to kill a high-born professional knight with the simple squeeze of a trigger. The elites feared the weapon could shatter the natural order of society. It was considered the most destabilizing weapon in existence, not unlike today’s nuclear, chemical and biological weapons.

I wonder who made crossbows. Always money to be made from selling weapons. Countries around the world spent over $1.7 trillion on weaponry this year – more than the total global investment in energy supply. War creates zero economic benefits . Weapons go obsolete quickly and do not generate returns as they destroy things of great value. Their associated costs add to already bloated government debt levels. That’s $1.7 trillion US dollars less available each year to improve world education, food and fuel availability, the environment and shifting global demographics, all critical issues.

Trillions, an unimaginably astronomical number. Billions: I can get a grasp on that. Six billion people walk this earth, a handy frame of reference. I can get a layman’s feeling for the number. But trillions: number of stars? Grains of sand? Comparisons slip away into time and space.
Money Cropped

This photo shows 2,000,000 dollars confiscated by Mexican police on a drug raid. There are 1,000,000,000,000, dollars in a trillion. Try to imagine a trillion . . . dollars.
There’s always an open market for weapons. Wars are fought and won with weapons, and you hope you’ve got the best. There must have been good crossbows, and shoddy ones as well, bows that shattered under tension. Time changes things, but not the way of things . . . not really.

The greatest expense: Lives lost, civilians killed, women and children . . . collateral damage. If war comes home, you’re better off to wear a uniform and hold a gun, than a civilian on the sidewalk on his way to buy a pack of cigarettes. The cost of bullets, just one round of 50 caliber . . . machine gun bullets. They’re about three bucks a bullet . . . for one bullet! Check me out on this. I’ve done research, but see if you come up with a different number. Watching a war on TV (if you’re lucky, not in person). Gatling guns rip off about two hundred rounds a second. That’s over six-hundred bucks gone in just one quick, Bbbrrrtt! Six hundred bucks a second – just one gun.

Rockets sell for millions. Smart bombs come in at around a hundred forty thousand, each. The money for a fighter plane could build a high school, but education is not a priority. Was it ever a priority? Anywhere? Maybe in ancient Greece, or Egypt, Alexandria . . . . or maybe not. Perhaps in some small area, for a short time, before the barbarians captured them.

Always a few crazy people running nations, big ones and small ones. Vietnam, and North Korea, Africa . . .  in places I can’t spell, the Middle East. Hitler and Stalin. . . . Linage that goes back as far as time, and into distant future. These madmen will always be with us. Chopping heads off now, medieval. Shocking. That’s what it’s supposed to be, was always. Chopping heads has been going on for a long time, we’ve just never seen it on TV before. Just think, without technology you’d never even know it happened. Would it still have happened? Probably. I’ve been reading Swedish history, the 1500’s. They were chopping heads off then, and later, Paris of course. The Japanese were into it, Chinese too I think . . . not sure.

Seems like no one ever offs these crazy guys. Was Caesar crazy . . . ? Can’t remember. One or two attempts on Hitler, poorly executed. The crazy ones are always well protected, with heightened sense of not unfounded paranoia. Probably Caesar wasn’t crazy enough. Assassination is a high risk occupation. Stalin was very good killing those he thought might be a threat. There were a lot of them.
Wars have always happened. I don’t think we’re going to change this. God bless those who try. We’d be in hell without them. We must struggle, try to make things better, or at least try not to make them worse. Buddhists would say they only significant change you can make is in yourself.

Tricycle article continues:
“We must confront violence on an individual level by bringing awareness to how we habitually react to disputes. Then we establish the wherewithal to overcome our urge toward aggressions big and small. Transforming our attitude toward conflict, it turns out, improves both how we relate to our dearest loved ones and how we respond to unsettling international crises.”

Good luck with that. Makes perfect sense, except the world is full of people and just like us, as sane and crazy, every variation you can think of, some beyond imagination. What was it Pogo said? "We have seen the enemy and he is us.”

It’s that old yin & yang game, good and evil in a world of inescapable opposites. The one unable to exist without the other. Nothing really changes, war and peace trade places, only that, and a dynamic system . . . drivers geeks might call them: Communication, Energy, and Information – make the world go ‘round. All things fold into those. And in the mean time, we’re survivors, you and I. Still here.        After all this time.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Swedish For Immigrants - Week 8 Part 1


The End Is Near

Part 1

Only a few more days now. No school Monday – Tuesday. I have an assessment interview Wednesday (Utvecklingssamal). This and last Friday’s test will determine what class I take next. This test was a big one and I was determined to be up for it. There were four parts. We were to have two hours to finish it. I put in six hours homework on parts 1 & 2 earlier in the week and was going to review parts 3 & 4 Thursday evening. Best laid plans. . . .

Our Thursday mornings start with an hour in the computer room. We look at Swedish language on-line sites. Sometimes we type and print out lessons, which doesn’t help me much, but probably good for students who have grown up writing Arabic script – الخط العربي. Beautiful to look at, but how they hell does anyone read those twisting, curvy lines and dots? Must be a huge transition from that to the European alphabet.

This Thursday we are not typing. Teacher is talking, in Swedish as usual, and as usual I am clueless, but can tell it’s about Friday’s big test. Something has happened. Something to do with class times. This does not sound good. (Pun unintended).

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I tell her. Now she writes it on the board. There’s been a mistake in class-time scheduling. Parts 3 & 4 of the test will be given today, one hour from now. Part 3 is about Swedish verb tenses, a subject impossible to understand unless you are Swedish. I had planned on going over them this afternoon.

Both test days were a disaster. I got so stressed out trying to answer parts 3 & 4 I forgot most of what I had practiced on 1 & 2. I figure my overall average in class is no better than 60%, but that might turn out to be to my advantage. I don’t want to be in any sort of advanced class. I’ve barely survived this ‘Intro’ class. If there’s a section for slow learners, that is where I want to be.

This class has had ups and downs, but I’ve enjoyed it most of the time. I like the teacher. She’s been good at what she does, and fun, good sense of humor. Hers is not an easy job I think . . . fighting the cell phones. I feel compassion, having had the problem teaching high school students in Seattle. The guys and gals in this class are much the same, but their average age is around 32. They can’t seem to stay off the damn phones. It’s like an addiction, texting, having secret conversations, looking up words used on tests – there is a translation app. Teacher is constantly catching them at it.

“Put that away!” Sometimes she whacks the guilty student’s desk with her pointer. Pow! I love it when she does that. Always makes me laugh.

It’s been a good experience. I think most of this class have done very well. A couple, not so much. I suspect they occupy seats for the money they are paid to attend to attend these classes. A couple other students, like myself, are struggling, but making a serious effort. Another two are cheating on the tests, but sound like they are also learning, and know more of the answers to questions than I do.

Saturday, October 4, 2014

Swedish For Immigrants - Week 8 Part 2

The End Is Near
Part 2

I’ve become interested in language as a thing in itself, the spoken sound, the origins of word. Carl Jung wrote some interesting observations of language. This from Symbols of Transformation, II. Two Kinds of Thinking. “Language is the registrar of tradition, the record of racial conquest, the deposit of all gains made by the genius of individuals. . . the social copy system thus established reflects the judgmental processes of the race, and in turn become the training school of judgment of new generations.”

Then further on:
“Jodi rejects the identity of language and thought on the ground that the same psychic fact can be expresses in different ways in different languages. He infers the existence of a ‘supra-linguistic’ type of thinking. No doubt there is such a thing, only it is not logical thinking.”

Interesting thing to think about . . . or not. Memories from other language classes, mental fragments, come to mind uninvited. I find myself suddenly remembering how to ask what time it is in Japanese, and Spanish . . . one or two Italian words from Army days in Eritrea. German from a college class I dropped.

I haven’t learned as much of the backgrounds, stories, of the other students as I’d hoped. Only the basics, ages, marriages . . . . politics. They keep telling me how much they like George Bush. Hard for me to respond to that one. “Obama, not so much,” they say. Whatever. 

Of the twelve who started with me, eight remain. Class size has stayed about the same, a few new students added over time. I’ve no idea where my missing classmates went. They might have taken low pay jobs, which would mean more money than they are being paid for attending these classes. There might have been family problems. Most are married and have kids – more than one kid, and a few with more than one wife.

The student from Vietnam is gone. She had a child, almost a baby, and family here. Every moment not in class was spent on her cell. I frequently glimpsed her family on its screen, excited, animated conversations, laughter . . . no idea what about.

I’ve finished the book I’ve been reading on class breaks these past weeks. We’re in mid-Fall . . . leaves turning. Still some nice days. Freezing at night sometimes. Time to start clearing the deck.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Amber's Cat Show Comments

Amber Cat Show 
Amber’s Cat Show Comments

I swore I’d never to another cat show. I really don’t approve of that sort of exploitation, but it was a slow day, Bucks was sleeping, as usual, and there was nothing better to do. Some of the contestants looked over fed if you ask me.

Cat Show 1

Cat Show - 2 
Look at him. He’s bigger than Brazil!

Cat Show - 9 
I had a talk with this one. Her name’s Lulu. She was kind of cute, just a kid really. “I flew in from Germany,” she told me. “Threw up on the plane. It was an awful trip. Show business isn’t easy, but I am well taken care of. I get bratwurst for breakfast and spend afternoons by the pool listening to Beethoven . . . mostly sonatas and string quartets.”

Cat Show - 10 
This is Lulu’s mom ― the cat I mean. Her name is Francis. Don’t know what her servant’s name is.

Cat Show - 3

Here’s one of the winners. Go figure. He looks weird if you ask me. I tried to get an interview, but he was very stuck up. Wanted three sardines just for talking to me, and started running on about photo rights. I told him, forget about it. A lot of these show cats have overgrown egos.

Cat Show - 6
Molle also had a high opinion of herself, and wouldn’t talk to me.

Cat Show - 4
This is one of the happy humans tripping out after a big win.

Cat Show -7
Some of the humans were fun to look at.