Somehow I made it through the bug, though recovery took longer than I anticipated (cue up Mick Jagger howling. What a drag it is, getting old….). Felt well enough to go out to dinner last Friday, as it was our 10th wedding anniversary. Found out my wife’s favorite steak house had closed down, so we went to Benihana instead to enjoy the art of the hibachi chef.

As usual, I found myself wondering if there is some sort of newsletter circulating, as I saw all the usual jokes, plus a couple of new ones (and observed those playing at the other stations). Saw the same act at another hibachi place a few months ago, though that particular chef had a thing about torching oil. Some flambe would have been nice Friday, but given how crowded the place was, would likely have been frowned upon by management.

Paid for it the next couple of days, feeling drained and wan, and the abdominal cramps kept cropping up through Sunday. Rested as much as I was able, and am, of course, behind in my work once more. A Wrath of God type storm pre-empted our plans to take Mom out for dinner Sunday night, so that’s our likely destination Tuesday.

Included in all this drama and mayhem is the arrival of two more occupants of the house. Our neighbor Ronnie, determined to become the neighborhood Weird Cat Lady, has convinced a couple of the neighborhood strays to call her house their home, with an eye toward abusing their trust by spiriting them away to be spayed (and frankly, this neighborhood needs a few more Weird Cat Ladies like Ronnie). Too late in one instance, and Lisa helped find homes for the kittens… including two for us.

Our ancient cat is not impressed with this turn of events, and the Power Pug Princess is mystified as why she cannot play with them yet. (Pugzilla is a sweetie, but dumber than a bag of hammers and unaware of her own strength). The only thing that will save these fluffballs from the wrath of the Dusty Old Cat will be a) her hope that they will eventually come in on her side in the occasional spirited bout of Pugby (a game the dog always wins); and b) her desire to inculcate the fluffballs into the Ways of Evil.

Yowly has spent the last 12 years trying, in a variety of insidious ways, to murder me. Her native cunning has served her well, making the attempts look like accidents, like the simple mistakes of a naive animal, but she doesn’t fool me – the sooner she gets rid of me, the sooner she’ll be able to sleep on Lisa’s face all night long, instead of having me eject her from the bedroom when I come to bed in the small hours of the morning. Thus, this picture, which sums for me the current situation at my house. I will spare you the mawkish story about a puppy and a crippled boy which was attached to this e-mail, and cut straight to the chase:

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