When do romance, politics, sports and pets converge? February, of course — that wacky month spelled with an inexplicable second R (it’s pronounced Feb-You-Airy, ya know). That tiny little month with only 28 days — this year 29 — is the Rhode Island of months, yet it’s cluttered with six holidays, counting Super Bowl. I’d go so far as to say a dizzying array of holidays.

Abe Lincoln’s birthday was the second, Washington’s is Feb. 22, and Feb. 20 was Presidents’ Day. I’m sure you wonder if Barack Obama’s face will one day be on Mt. Rushmore. We can only conjecture.

Moving on to February romance and critters, Valentine’s Day was last Tuesday, and Groundhog Day 12 days earlier. Actually, V-Day pales in comparison to G-Day in my heart, since that little dickens, Punxatawney Phil, and I almost grew up together.

Punxatawney, Penn., is only 71 miles from Hollsopple, Penn. Also, Phil resides in a hill known as “Gobbler’s Knob,” while four miles from Hollsopple is “Gobbler’s Hollow,” a small berg where Iris Kaltenbaugh, who I used to make out with in high school, resided.

Granted, none of this is terribly relevant…yet! But when my writing finally makes me famous after I die broke and alone, you’ll have an unfair advantage in a game of “Doug Blough Trivia.” On some future Sept. 19 “Doug Blough’s Birthday,” you can amaze your friends with, “Did you know Doug grew up near Punxatawney Phil, and once necked with a gal from Gobbler’s Hollow?”

How do these holidays intertwine? Well, Phil saw his shadow, signifying six more weeks of romance before 1/2 of all marriages will end. Hopefully, you celebrated Valentine’s Day with that special one to whom you vowed your love for all eternity, as I did.

I awoke that morning to my significant other staring deeply into my eyes. I softly cooed, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sweety.” He (yes, he!) gazed dreamily but said nothing, so I began singing, “It’s amazing how you speak right to my heart, without saying a word, you can light up the dark; try as I may, I could never explain, what I hear when you don’t say a thing…”

As he softly caressed my lips, my love song continued: “The smile on your face lets me know that you need me, there’s a truth in your eyes sayin’ you’ll never leave me; the touch of your hand says you’ll catch me…if ever I faaall; You say it best… when you say nothing at aaall.”

But that morning was similar to most when I awake to my big, furry, black cat, Sportscar on my chest. I’m in love with all my five kitties, but have a special love for Sportscar since eight years ago, he rescued me during a period of bereavement when I felt I might never again find black-kitten love.

I only had little, super-special Gilligan about a month when I found his fuzzy little body one morning dead in the snow near my mailbox. My huge dog Trinity, who used to hold his mouth wide open with Gilligan’s entire head buried inside, cried with me as he pawed Gilligan’s body with a sad, confused look.

When friends insisted I check out a Gilligan spitting-image that had just come into the shelter, I scoffed. When I watched him hunker over a food dish growling at other kittens that came near, I thought, “Well, this rude, gluttonous little hobo is certainly no Gilligan!”

Long love story short, I acquiesced, adopted and slowly fell in love all over again. Sportscar never lets a day go by without several, purring lap sessions, and he’s the only cat I’ve ever had that comes running when called. Always the diplomat, he respects the space of my older, tenured cats and immediately became a mischievous big-brother to my youngest, little Princess.

I’m not saying Sportscar is perfect. Every relationship partner has his or her faults and annoying habits. For instance, recently during dinner, I left the coffee table and returned to find weeks of mail floating in milk. As always, Sportscar had sat inches from my plate soliciting bites, and the second my back was turned, went paw-fishing in my milk glass.

Sure I was miffed, even raising my voice in anger as he made his getaway up the stairs. Then anger turned to rage when after dabbing up milk, I sat down on the couch, felt something squishy underneath me and realized I had just sat squarely on my own cheeseburger! Making matters worse, it was loaded with ketchup and relish, and I was wearing brand new sweats.

But true love keeps no record of wrongs, and the important thing in a relationship is to never let the sun go down while still angry, and I did not. Yes, we slept together as always that night. Hey, to err is feline; to forgive, divine.

When do romance, politics, sports and pets converge? February, of course — that wacky month spelled with an inexplicable second R (it’s pronounced Feb-You-Airy, ya know). That tiny little month with only 28 days — this year 29 — is the Rhode Island of months, yet it’s cluttered with six holidays, counting Super Bowl. I’d go so far as to say a dizzying array of holidays.

Abe Lincoln’s birthday was the second, Washington’s is Feb. 22, and Feb. 20 was Presidents’ Day. I’m sure you wonder if Barack Obama’s face will one day be on Mt. Rushmore. We can only conjecture.

Moving on to February romance and critters, Valentine’s Day was last Tuesday, and Groundhog Day 12 days earlier. Actually, V-Day pales in comparison to G-Day in my heart, since that little dickens, Punxatawney Phil, and I almost grew up together.

Punxatawney, Penn., is only 71 miles from Hollsopple, Penn. Also, Phil resides in a hill known as “Gobbler’s Knob,” while four miles from Hollsopple is “Gobbler’s Hollow,” a small berg where Iris Kaltenbaugh, who I used to make out with in high school, resided.

Granted, none of this is terribly relevant…yet! But when my writing finally makes me famous after I die broke and alone, you’ll have an unfair advantage in a game of “Doug Blough Trivia.” On some future Sept. 19 “Doug Blough’s Birthday,” you can amaze your friends with, “Did you know Doug grew up near Punxatawney Phil, and once necked with a gal from Gobbler’s Hollow?”

How do these holidays intertwine? Well, Phil saw his shadow, signifying six more weeks of romance before 1/2 of all marriages will end. Hopefully, you celebrated Valentine’s Day with that special one to whom you vowed your love for all eternity, as I did.

I awoke that morning to my significant other staring deeply into my eyes. I softly cooed, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sweety.” He (yes, he!) gazed dreamily but said nothing, so I began singing, “It’s amazing how you speak right to my heart, without saying a word, you can light up the dark; try as I may, I could never explain, what I hear when you don’t say a thing…”

As he softly caressed my lips, my love song continued: “The smile on your face lets me know that you need me, there’s a truth in your eyes sayin’ you’ll never leave me; the touch of your hand says you’ll catch me…if ever I faaall; You say it best… when you say nothing at aaall.”

But that morning was similar to most when I awake to my big, furry, black cat, Sportscar on my chest. I’m in love with all my five kitties, but have a special love for Sportscar since eight years ago, he rescued me during a period of bereavement when I felt I might never again find black-kitten love.

I only had little, super-special Gilligan about a month when I found his fuzzy little body one morning dead in the snow near my mailbox. My huge dog Trinity, who used to hold his mouth wide open with Gilligan’s entire head buried inside, cried with me as he pawed Gilligan’s body with a sad, confused look.

When friends insisted I check out a Gilligan spitting-image that had just come into the shelter, I scoffed. When I watched him hunker over a food dish growling at other kittens that came near, I thought, “Well, this rude, gluttonous little hobo is certainly no Gilligan!”

Long love story short, I acquiesced, adopted and slowly fell in love all over again. Sportscar never lets a day go by without several, purring lap sessions, and he’s the only cat I’ve ever had that comes running when called. Always the diplomat, he respects the space of my older, tenured cats and immediately became a mischievous big-brother to my youngest, little Princess.

I’m not saying Sportscar is perfect. Every relationship partner has his or her faults and annoying habits. For instance, recently during dinner, I left the coffee table and returned to find weeks of mail floating in milk. As always, Sportscar had sat inches from my plate soliciting bites, and the second my back was turned, went paw-fishing in my milk glass.

Sure I was miffed, even raising my voice in anger as he made his getaway up the stairs. Then anger turned to rage when after dabbing up milk, I sat down on the couch, felt something squishy underneath me and realized I had just sat squarely on my own cheeseburger! Making matters worse, it was loaded with ketchup and relish, and I was wearing brand new sweats.

But true love keeps no record of wrongs, and the important thing in a relationship is to never let the sun go down while still angry, and I did not. Yes, we slept together as always that night. Hey, to err is feline; to forgive, divine.