After living with cats -- as many as six at a time -- for 30 years, I have learned one thing: They all have different personalities, sometimes radically different. Take the current twosome who inhabit our house. Honey is a beauty, mostly Maine Coon I think, but she is a coward, at least in my presence. When I enter a room, she flies out of it (and "flies" is no exaggeration). Chloe, on the other hand, is of indeterminate breed, has a twisted tail and a hind leg of a different color than the rest of her. She rejoices at my presence and comes up to me to have her neck rubbed, purring like an Evinrude motor as I stroke the fur. The only problem is that she believes I exist solely to rub her neck and will not leave me alone until I hint strngly that her presence is no longer welcome -- by throwing her across the room, for instance. (Not really, although I've been tempted.) Both cats had nine traumatic months recently when my son moved in temporarily with his three cats, but that's a story for another day.
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Sign in front of a local church: "Give your troubles to God. He's up all night anyway."
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I mentioned a while back that I have several iPods. Well, I also have several pay-as-you-go cellphones -- 10 to be exact. This is truly odd because I never call anyone and no one ever calls me.
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The most exciting thing in today's newspapers was an ad for free shaving cream.
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