Monday, September 19, 2016


      It's about seven thirty on a Saturday morning, and I'd planned on sleeping in for at least another hour. Instead, I'm awakened by my wife, loudly protesting to my second favorite bedmate.

     "DOUGIE! Would you PLEASE....I can't BREATHE with you up there-SCAT!"
Susan is still trying to  get used to sleeping with fifteen pounds of cat hogging the pillow. It's no use trying to get him to stop-I certainly couldn't after five years. Putting him out the door is even worse, 'cause he'll sit outside the door, yowling and scratching until you let him back in. I guess he does have certain rights, having been, well, the House Cat, but still....

     Susan finally picks him up and semi-dumps him on the floor next to the bed. The injured party, his dignity offended, runs to the door, glaring over his shoulder at us, since we're still in bed, and it's obviously breakfast time. Since we've now got room, I take the time to gaze at my bride of a month and change. She's giving me that pleased, flattered, "what-are-you-looking-at" look that I've missed so much. I feel like I'm in junior high, and the tongue-tying girl who sits in the first row has told me yes, she'll go to the dance with me, in front of EVERYONE.

      What can I say? I got the girl, again.
My phone's my friend, Dr. Lewis Smith, wanting to know if me and Susan want to devour steaks with him and his missus later today.

     Silly question, that.

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