My most devoted reader is the Smidge. He loves to hop up on the desk and watch the screen while I type... he does the same with the tv, sometimes staring at it for half an hour at a time. Maybe he's just a flat-screen fetishist. But I'm taking it as a compliment, just the same.
We'll call this an even swap for the unholy act he perpetrated on the holiday goodie-basket I brought home from the cabin last week. Wow. I thought something smelled funny when I came in the door this afternoon. And sure enough, he (or someone) seemed to have confused the rather large, empty basket lined with paper shreds as a litterbox in waiting. I've always said these cats can poop at will... and nothing seems to stimulate them like a pristine receptacle.
See, my mother had made this wonderful goodie basket for me and had it waiting in my room when I got to the cabin for Christmas. It was full of all kinds of treats (Poppycock, pistachios, almond roca, Lindt truffles and the like) for me to nibble on while I was there, lest I become too weakened from hunger to stumble ten feet to the kitchen for a snack. And since I hadn't touched a single bite of the goodies, she sent it home with me. I started in on it a couple days ago, and now the basket has been completely defiled. I'd love to post the photo (oh, yes, I took one!) of this abomination, but it is a little crude. Hysterical, but crude. Even for me. But suffice it to say, the basket's now full of Poopycock.
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