Wandering on Wednesday

So You Think You Can Dance came back last month, with several weeks of auditions, demonstrating that more than a few people only think they can dance.  But this year’s auditions mostly showcased wonderful dancers, and tonight the last thirty-five contestants were whittled down to the Top Twenty.  Now those twenty have two weeks to bask in the thrill before the competition begins and the first two dancers are sent packing.

I can hardly express how impressed I am by these brave young people, not just by their talent–I know nothing about dancing, and everyone who made it to the Las Vegas call-backs looked spectacular to me–but by their courage in competing in such a public venue.  Yes, they are entertainers, but putting it all out there in spite of the possibility of being the first one eliminated takes guts.  More guts than I have.  I was also impressed this evening by how many of the Top Twenty dancers were not trying out for the first time.  Several of them had come back year after year.  One young woman who made it through tonight had been the last dancer eliminated, number twenty-one, last year.

This year the show will have two winners, male and female, and the make-up of the Top Twenty is a bit different than in past seasons.  The judges chose three with ballet training (two guys, one girl), three with Latin ballroom experience (two girls, one guy), three jazz dancers, one belly dancer (!), and several falling (or dancing) into the general category of contemporary dancers.  Only three, all guys, are what I think of as urban street dancers, largely because I have no grasp at all of the subgenres involved.  They referred to one as a stepper and one as an animator; the third, a particularly handsome young man of Asian descent, combines martial arts with dance.  It ought to be a very entertaining summer.

I’ve been concerned about Nutmeg for a couple of days, so this morning I left her at the vet clinic near my home for a check-up and diagnosis of a problem manifesting, shall we say, in the vicinity of her tail.   Dr. Roof (yes, his canine patients call him by name) says she has colitis brought on by–I am ashamed to admit–obesity.  Yes, I am a bad Pet Parent.  In my defense, Nutmeg was a butterball when I adopted her from Second Chance Pets a couple of years ago.  She had been rescued, along with three kittens, from a storm drain, and somehow it seemed mean not to indulge her.  But now she weighs almost sixteen pounds, and she just doesn’t have the skeleton for it.

So we came home with antibiotics for ten days (Nutmeg took the first one from Dr. Roof with as much surprise on her face as a cat can muster–we’ll see if she accepts the next one as readily), a small jar of the feline equivalent of diaper rash cream (that should be as much fun as the pills) and a case of prescription high-protein low-carb cat food.  This evening she has shown no interest whatsoever in the (fairly expensive) cat food, but cats are not stupid.  If that’s all there is, she’ll eat it.  Then again, maybe that’s how the diet works.

My neighbor says we have baby owls in the backyard.

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