A Note on the Fridge

Clarice has dined on liver

and fava beans

and a nice chianti — at 1:10 AM

Clarice is our kitten Claire, thus named for the greater part that the allergy medicine Claritin must play in our lives, especially for my son Jon who turned red and blotchy and burst into sneezing minutes after first starting to play with her. Luckily with the the medicine he’s alright. I only seem to itch if I touch my eyes after petting her, or if she rubs my face, or of course in a fit of carnivorousness, she plays too hard and scratches or bites me. And while I think we are training her well (she gives kisses instead of bites the moment I say “No.”), she is still a nutty berserker right after she eats.

A Cat Raised by Monkies

A Cat Raised by Monkeys

We leave the notes on the fridge to let each other know when she was fed last, but one AM is awful late. Either Brian forgot to write it down, or else he knew she’d expect to be fed again, no matter what, as soon as I walked in the door. To be safe I got the food out and we started our nightly ritual. Her with her Life-Is-Good kitty dish and toys, and me with my gin and tonic and the computer. Now she is regally bathing on my lap, more like Clarissa before a party than the friend of Hannibal.

I am looking at CSS and XML tutorials and trying to learn something useful in giving a face lift to GayFatherhood.com, as well as be of some help to the Cowboy when the old MSN Poetry Workshop pulls up steaks and wagon trains for Multiply or whatever group service the posse decides on when the MSN groups shut down after January. Of course, then there is this new and homey blog here that I’ve created. I still need to sort out the links and a few other things, but with a few dishes in the sink and one load of laundry to put away, I think that Clair and I will turn in for the night.

She’s already sleeping here on my lap, the very picture of innocence.

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