Early yesterday, earlier than these pictures, I was awakened by a commotion in the cat room -- the small disused bath next to the bedroom that is home to the litter box and cat food dishes.
I hauled myself out of bed to see what was happening and found both cats crouched and staring under the old claw foot tub. Investigation with a flash light revealed a flying squirrel in a defensive position that the cats couldn't reach. And neither could I.
So I went back to bed to consider what to do. Flying squirrels invariably climb up things so as to be able to glide away. But until the cats went away . . .
Just about then, my cellphone on the chest beside the bed gave a little burp to let me know I had a text. (It's a dumb phone that once fell in the water. It can receive texts but any attempt to reply always ends badly.) I looked at the phone. 4:30 in the am. Who could this be? I punched the ok button and received the following message: BE THE MAN OF STEEE IN BED! Hmm. I've heard of the Man of LaMancha and there's a Scotch made by the Men of Tain. But Man of Steee? I fell asleep, dreaming that I was the Man of Steee -- a taciturn fella in a kilt who got all his best ideas while dreaming. When I awoke the cats were on the bed and the flying squirrel was hanging on the screen door that leads out to a small deck. It was the work of a minute to open the screen door and watch him glide away in the dawn's early light. And with the dawn came the realization that other people mess up texts too. Sometimes even spammers pushing ED solutions.
