Creeeaak . . .
What's that sound?
That, dear Ellsworth, is the sound of this blog being turned on again. It's been a while, like, since June.
What are you doing?
Making a get-well card for Short Stuff. She's a pretty sick cat.
You're making a get-well card for Xenia? That's very nice, but I know you, Wincester. What's in it for you?
Nothing! Can't a cat make a get-well card now and then? Maybe when Short Stuff gets better, we'll be friends.
She has hated every breath you've drawn since you came here six years ago. And you rile her whenever you get a chance.
That's all in the past. Will you hand me the magenta crayon? And you don't know everything about me, Miss Ellie. I have another side.
You don't have any sides--you're completely round! Wait, it's the special cat food The Writer feeds Xenia now, isn't it? She is only fed real minced turkey or chicken--
--and those little tubs of Fancy Feast that cost over a dollar each! They smell so good when The Writer zips off the foil. Puuure white meat in a light savory gravy, yum! The Writer scoops it on a little blue plate and takes it to Short Stuff. And I run after The Writer and rub against her legs but she just ignores me.
And you think if you make a get-well card, Shortst--, I mean, Xenia will share some of her food? How low can you stoop?
You know what the saddest words in the world are?