Naaaahhh...I'm not a rock star. I've never trashed a hotel room, felt
up Paris Hilton, been hospitalized for "exhaustion" and if I were to
exit a limousine publicly, I would wear *underpants.* Big ones. But
it's always nice to get a scritch on the head. Thank you.

*My* Ferret Rock Stars generally don't have names that I even know.
They are the folks feeding duck soup and prednisone every three hours
throughout the night, scooping dookie and wondering how they are ever
going to pay the mortgage. It's work that I simply *can't* do, I lack
the capacity, the tenacity. It's largely a thankless occupation as far
as public acclaim goes, but I am confident that there are intrinsic
rewards that I can only imagine. The little sighs of contentment a
fuzzy in pain will give when he's safe in your arms, and doesn't hurt
any more. The rare dooks given by an oldster who remembers being a kit,
just for a moment...back before his hoomins didn't have "time" for him
anymore.The slow, tentative, measured steps of a war dance danced for
the first time in a life that has known precious little stability or
joy.

These stars blaze brightly in the night sky of my imagination. You
folks know who you are. Hats off.

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 6344]