The Pony and I saw a bumper sticker this afternoon that elicited opposing responses.
We had traveled to a nearby town for the purpose of bill-paying. Now don't go thinking that Val drives a Clampett truck filled with chicken cages in order to do her bartering. Nor does she dig up that sock filled with gold doubloons from the back yard every time she needs to settle a debt. The fact is that a payment by mail to this savings-and-loan does not garner a return receipt. And Val is all about her receipts with itemization.
This town is a bit more tony than Backroads. Ritzier houses. Boutiques. Storefronts that do not include Tubbie's Thrift Shop and Jose's Second-Hand Store. Touristy places. A populace that is a bit more snooty than cooty.
There it was. Right in front of us at a stoplight.
Cats Not Kids.
"Well," I said. "Nothing like alienating eighty percent of the population. What kind of statement is that? If you drop dead, at least kids won't eat your face off before you are found."
The Pony ruminated on that concept for a moment. "But cats don't grow up and leave you. They don't have hands to turn the doorknobs."
For now, we agree to disagree.