Another Sunday at one of the majors, and another Sunday on which Tiger couldn’t play a Tiger round. As Paul Azinger remarked, Tiger doesn’t seem to have that youthful enthusiasm he used to have, all the uppercut arm pumps, all the smiles. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have much to smile about on these Sundays, and too few arm pumps, too many “goddamit”s, too many missed putts. I was hoping I’d live long enough to see him win that 18th major, but it now looks like I’d have to be Methuselah to see that happen and Tiger’s got only five or six more prime years. It was nice, though, to see the happy farmer win the Open for the first time. I call Phil the happy farmer because he always seems to be smiling that sappy smile and he walks like a farmer. What a final round he put together. He says it was probably the best final round he’s ever played and I and most of the announcers would agree with that. All right, Phil, now go for next year’s US Open.
Another update on Tuffy and Tiger, our two new kitties that have brought such sunshine into our lives. The day after Tiger recovered from whatever he had wrong with him, Tuffy came down with the same thing, couldn’t stand up, couldn’t walk, listless and crying whenever we touched him. And forty-eight hours later he was back to running and playing. According to the folks at the animal shelter, it seems to have been a 48-hour virus and isn’t all that unusual. Now why wouldn’t our vet have known about such a thing? Beats me.
Here’s a picture of two critters that are normally thought of as sworn enemies, but here they’re lovey-dovey. Don’t you wish all peoples could put their enmity aside, could hug and love each other despite genetic or racial or religious or national differences? We’ll finally realize world peace when that happens.
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