When my ex-boyfriend Jeff was young, he had a cat named Tigger, a
Ritalin-challenged half-Siamese with a loud mouth and energy beyond
comprehension. His family was known in our small town for going
overboard in spoiling their animals--one dog ate not Purina, but a fresh
chicken drumstick cooked especially for her--and Tigger, along with all
the other four-legged people in their home, was allowed the run of the
house. And I do mean RUN.

The day before Thanksgiving, more years ago than I care to count, Mama
Mullen made the holiday pies, covered them in Saran wrap, and continued
her planning for the dinner that would include some moneyed guests from
out of town. It was a perfect feast; Jeff's mom was always a good cook.
Thanksgiving morning, as they awaited the guests, Tigger went off on a
freak-fit where he would run for mo apparent reason. The family never
bothered to stop him; it was just a Tigger thing.

That evening, they served their snooty guests pumpkin pie that had cat
tracks across its surface, clean down to the crust. They were too polite
to turn down dessert, but everyone noticed they didn't ask for seconds.

Blessed be,
Baha