It's Labor Day. It's noon. I'm sitting at the computer in my underwear, working to resurrect Denise's weblog (the one-eyed rabbits are coming!) and my long-dormant Bibliophilic book site. I'm hacking away.
All of a sudden there's a mad clump clump clump up the stairs. It sounds something like a cat, but not one of ours. "What is that?" I wonder, and I step out into the hall to see.
sigh
Poor, inept Nemo — whom I'd only just let outside minutes before — had caught his second bird in the fifteen months we've been here. Because his triumphs are so rare, he likes to share them with everyone. Sort of. He wants everyone to see his bird, but he'll be damned if he's going to touch it.
Simon stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at Nemo. And Nemo's bird. (Like me, Simon seemed puzzled as to how Nemo had even managed to catch it.) Nemo looked down at Simon and grOOWWWLLed. Nemo looked at me and grOOWWWLLed. I walked toward him, and he darted by me into the guest room.
"Come on, Nemo," I said. "I don't want your bird." He grOOWWWLLed again, louder this time. He dashed by me to the bedroom, looking for a place to hide and eat his snack in peace. He hopped onto the bed.
"Do not eat your snack there," I said. "Your mother would be angry." Gradually I herded him downstairs and outside. Simon followed, jealously watching the bird.
Cats — sometimes they're nothing but trouble.
That's not our friendly Flicker is it?