Cats

Shit, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that Ash is pregnant.

Daimon says, “Maybe she is just plumping out for middle-age.”

Could be.

Pi says, “Or maybe you would kind of like to have some kittens around the house, and you are lost in wishful thinking.”

That would be nice, but in truth, I don’t have the heart for it. It would be so many tragedies waiting to happen. I think we have enough feline drama going on. We have already managed somehow to save Sammy from one death - last year. We cannot keep counting on that kind of luck.

Pop

Pop rushes out for a Christmas celebration. Maybe it’s the Center, the elderly place. As he heads out the door, he says that Kay may be coming at around twelve and to open the door for her. So, I guess she will be here for the weekend.

I shouldn’t complain. It has been another good streak, and I did enjoy an extended weekend alone just last week. But one does get spoiled.

On an extra note of bad luck, it would have to be a rainy weekend. We have a 60% chance of rain tonight. It already looks it, too. Well, we have to play it as it comes. That’s what keeps life interesting.

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Old Age

Shakespeare gives us a sharp, biting statement on old age. A noble citizen is chiding the roguish, raffish Falstaff.

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Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old with all the characters of age? Have you not a moist eye? A dry hand? A yellow cheek? A white beard? A decreasing leg? An increasing belly? Is not your voice broken? Your wind short? Your chin double? Your wit single? And every part of you blasted with antiquity? And will you yet call yourself young?

-- Henry IV (Part 2) by Shakespeare

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