I’ll admit to having been just a trifle hung over on the first of January. Not debilitatingly so, but enough that I was prone to staring straight ahead, blankly, every couple minutes or so…
William Throckmorton the Third and I had gone to a New Year’s Eve party at Kurt G.’s house the night before, where we were surrounded by friends, platters and platters of attractively arranged food, and conversations regarding the veracity of decisions made whilst under the influence, the beauty of curse words, and stupidity (Vinnie, the group’s token Brit, had a cashier ask him, upon checking his passport, where, in Australia, the “UK” was. Vinnie told her “the south”).
We celebrated the ringing-in of the new year by forming a horn-blowing conga line of silliness, running out the back door, around the house in the snow, and back into the house through the front door.
For some reason, that had seemed like a really good idea.
It was clear, however, when Willie and I woke up in our beds Thursday morning, that we were not the only ones that had had a good idea or two.
Because while the cats were both still curled into two fuzzy, nonchalant balls of sleep at the foot of the bed, the evidence of last night’s kitteh-based debauchery was everywhere.
There were long-tailed stuffed animals scattered about the floor, the backs of their necks bearing tiny little teeth marks. Balls of string had been rolled around and around the living room furniture, evidence of high-spirited frolicking.
There was catnip spilled, spread, sprinkled all over the kitchen table. A shallow bowl of heavy whipping cream sat in the middle of it.
Willie and I stared, open-mouthed.
Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) and Dolly G. Squeakers (formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers) have a lot of ‘splaining to do.
No Small Start: 1878
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