Jul 20 2008
Not Ready for His Close-Up, Mr. DeMille
A slightly better picture of Henry. He doesn’t look very pleased at having his nap disturbed just so I can share his handsomeness with the world. Even if he knew, I doubt if he’d feel any differently about it. He’s that kind of guy.
This morning, he was waiting for me beside the porch steps, a first for him. He usually waits beside his bachelor pad under the porch, where his matching bowls and cozy bed are. Today he hissed at me and talked all the way to the other side of porch, explaining how little he cared that I wanted to sleep in and how much he wanted his food.
I petted him as he passed me on the way to the dish, and he swiped at me. You know how boys are.
And no remarks on the state of the lawn. I know, I know. I really should mow it, but it’s littered with plum minefields, all squashy and stainy, the terror of shoes. And we’re in a drought, so I’m not allowed to water it, even if I wanted to.
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