My Peaceful Silence Has Been Attacked

Yeah, remember my one and only New Year's Resolution? More silence in my life? In order to, like, regroup and destress and hear myself think?

The universe threw in a monkeywrench.

First, know this: I love TV. I'm not just fond of it. I love it. And pitifully, I can find SO much to watch on just plain old network TV that cable is out of the question. I've got what's called "Basic" cable, which, in this wretched town means you get:

1. Clearer reception on local channels
2. The NASA channel
3. CSPAN

Thus, no big temptation.

But on January 2, I was trying to enter "04" into my remote control. I accidentally entered "40." Which normally would give me nothing but snow and static.
And there, before my very eyes, was Animal Planet. Out of nowhere. But not just Animal Planet, which, by the way, is one of my favorite things on the planet. (I've sampled it at my parents' house.) But there were suddenly 35 new cable channels on my TV. I started to freak out. Where had they come from? I immediately called the local cable company to nonchalantly ask them if they were doing one of those sneaky promotions where they give you a free taste of expensive cable to get you hooked like a meth-whore.

They weren't. And they wanted to know my address. I hung up and hid in my den of illegal cable.

At that moment, I had no idea what a meerkat was.

Enter "Meerkat Manor." My life tilted.

It seems that scientists at Cambridge University have been studying the lives and habits of a group of meerkats they've dubbed The Whiskers. What else could they be called? For ten years there have been dozens of cameras jammed into the sand of the Kalahari Desert to watch every move this tribe of meerkats makes. Every tiny nuance of their social and familial habits. And if you don't think meerkats have nuances, well, I feel sorry for the likes of you. The meerkitties have been given names like Flower and Zaphod and Shakespeare and Tosca and Mitch. There are cameras deep inside the intricate tunnels of their burrows, where you can watch itty bitty meerkat babies stumble adorably in the dark.

And God help me, when Shakespeare, the good-natured "teenage" boy of the tribe was bitten twice by a vicious puff adder (once on the face, once on the hind leg) I fell apart. The sight of him limping away, in pain and near death, sliced me open to the core. I wanted to ram my head through the TV screen and snatch him from the horrors of the Kalahari. I will show that puff adder what for. There will be puff adder hors d'oeuvres for The Whiskers. Puff adder on a Ritz. Or tiny puff adder pies the size of nickels. And if there is any puff adder left, I'll take a melon baller to him and won't those little spheres of adder be fun to roll around in the burrows. He will think twice before he sinks his curly fangs into Shakespeare again.