I don’t know what it is about cats, that they can just sense things: they
know when it’s chow time; they know that there are squirrels in the yard
before we clumsy two-legs can get a clue, and they know what we need, right
then and there.

Those who’ve read my stuff over the past couple of months may know that
things haven’t been hunky-dory, especially where my job is concerned. If I
want to talk about hell I’ll go to one of the religion newsgroups, so I won’t
go too far into the fire and brimstone. But the cats know when we are about
to descend into the abyss.

After a restful weekend I had to prepare myself to return to the upholstered
cesspool that is my job. Yuck. I woke up with a face full of zits and start-
of-week heartburn and trudged to the sofa to fix my hair. Brandy decided to
join me. She sprawled next to me and rolled over to give me gut and to give
me that big purr of hers; and then she rolled to her side, wrapped her front
paws around my leg, and cuddled herself up so close you might not have known
us for two separate beings. I went to work whistling. Nothing like a kitty
hug when you need one.

Blessed be,
Baha