Now I will admit that I am not the best of housekeepers. Martha Stewart
definitely does not live under my roof, and glad I am of it; it would have
been a pain in the tuchus keeping her around while she had to shlep that band
around her ankle. So one must be indulgent and forgive the piles of catalogs
yet unread, the bags full of yarn waiting to be knit, the pop bottles waiting
to be taken back to the supermarket.

The cats, while they contribute to the love and fun that make a house a home
(and truly they have the most important of jobs) do not contribute to the
housework, and this is OK. With all the playing (also an important job for a
cat) and motherly administration of discipline from Roxie’s paws, the masseur
treatments from Stosh and the extremely rigorous duties of personal grooming,
a cat is busy enough without being asked to participate in the actual
maintenance of the home wherein they reside. This is what they have a
dedicated staff of servants for.

So it should not have come as a surprise to me that, engaged in a vigorous
game of Chase Stosh, Brandy found herself in a sort of on the job training in
the finer points of bowling. She and Stosh came ripping from the living room
the bedroom, did a couple of maneuvers on the bed which elicited some amusing
new cusswords from my half-asleep husband, and proceeded to the kitchen where
Stosh made an unexpected jump to the bar. Brandy, trying to get her bulk in
gear to follow suit, instead went sliding across the kitchen tiles and landed
squarely into a bunch of bottles that were standing like little plastic
soldiers awaiting bagging and transport to the friendly neighborhood grocer.
We could hear them all crash into each other and fall down like a bunch of
well-struck bowling pins; and it was a strike indeed, for Brandy knocked them
all down. I could hear her say “What the HELL?!” as her tail puffed up and
she backed away from the frame she had just completed. Mama picked her up and
told her it was okay, she just has a better bowling average than I do (and
she does, damn it!) and she jumped over my shoulder to resume her game of
Chase Stosh; and I resolved to stay the heck away from the lanes. I don’t
want admit that my cat truly is a better bowler than I.

Blessed be,
Baha