I think my cat is on to something. He lies on the floor of the porch pretending he has no bones. His body is spread across the tea-colored concrete like a melted, orange sherbert. Outside, the summer air moves like congress implementing spending controls. I wisely decide to spend four hours of my first day off digging and weeding and planting and mowing myself into sweaty, mosquito-bitten exhaustion. Back in the porch, I strip off my shoes and socks and even my shorts but I am too dirty and tired to go inside, so I sprawl on the cement where the air from the ceiling fans seems to be blowing the hardest and the cool floor wicks heat from my body almost magically. My cat has not moved, he bothers to open one hazel eye, stares at me and winks, seemingly saying, human, you are an idiot. Now where is my food?