Ah... Friday. The end of the week, and the weekend to look forward to. Work around the house, and cooking to be done. Time with the cats. Blessed time to love all four of them. Four is the maximum number of children one human can give love to, and keep them all happy, in my opinion.

Friday.

I get "Get homeitis". That is to say I want no side trips, via direct. It takes me 23 minutes from work until I land my classic 1987 5.0 litre V-8 Firebird Formula in the underground garage. I fairly charge home, making the big motor howl.

To see my cats.

Cleo waits by the door, she's first out to greet me, followed by Velvet, Bella, and a sleepy Tippy who comes when called.

The weekend booze is supplied on home delivery. I have a guy, Gary, who brings it out to me for a minimal charge. Since time is money, and for seven bucks or so, he can brave the line up at the Liquor Store for me. He comes within the hour. Worth it. Besides, he likes Velvet, and vice.

Velvet is terrified of other humans, because she was abused. Not Gary, she likes him in a casual sort of way.

So.

It's Friday night, I have called Gary for my wine, and called for Chicken takeaway. (Isn't the phone a wonderful instrument!)

The chicken arrives before Gary does. The chicken is for the cats. What ever they don't eat, I get. Velvet and Cleo close in for the kill.

Cleo attacks what I give her. "It's hot puss!" I warn her, she scarfes it anyway. The phone rings. Gary has arrived with my wine. While I am dealing with him, Cleo makes off with my entire dinner. Velvet gets the drumstick. I get nothing. They ravish it.

Takeaway is for them is fun, the human gets the chips.

So it should be.

Copyright © Bill Mason
November 30, 2002