I’m here with Patrick the Cat, listening to the news. We often have coffee together after finding him patrolling the hallway like a furry Pinkerton Guard.
This morning he was playing with a waterbug the size of a hockey puck who must have been so happy to see me since, after scooping him up in a napkin flushed him safely away. I never kill anything if I can help it, and figured, he probably swims, being a waterbug and all.
Patrick didn’t mind since he knew milk was in his future.
We’ve been discussing the virus, both thinking it’s starting to have a Spielberg feel to it like a remake of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, a favorite movie of ours.
I asked him if he’s been washing his paws, something he found amusing. “I’m a cat, I always wash my paws, among other things.”
“Yes of course Patrick, I’m still a little sleepy so you’ll have to excuse me.”
“You’re the one I’m worried about. Are you washing yours?”
“Yes, I’ve been good about it, even though my hands are dryer than Hazel’s.”
“Never mind. I know it’s early, but how bout a sardine to go with that milk?”
“Now you’re talkin, but make you sure you wash your hands first. A cat’s gotta be careful.”