It’s really hard to walk a cat.
I put him on his leash, he lays down. I carry him downstairs, he jumps out of my arms and wanders around the courtyard, sniffing bushes, rubbing up on bricks, sticking his head into foliage, you know.
If you let him get too close to cover, he’ll go for it, or he’ll try to jump through the bars of the gate and then you’re on one side, holding the leash, and he’s on the other, and that’s sort of a problem too.
He got his scratching urges out on a tree and then I needed to grab something out of my car, and he freaked out the minute I opened my door. Tried to bolt. Hates cars.
Wow, the 18 hour ride to Denver is going to be a blast, then, huh?
Too bad you can’t just drug him and ship him. I wonder if there’s such a service.
Well, no matter what happens, it will be an adventure.
I’m staring down my last morning of relative freedom before the real finals crunch begins. I have a Spanish final tomorrow that of course I haven’t started studying for and then a presentation and take home final due Saturday. This is going to be a blast. Not.
So the final word for wearing my dress at graduation is negative. Can’t do it. There’s too much poof. Under the gown, it looks as though I’m wearing some sort of underwiry bustle. Think 19th century fashion and you’ll understand my problem.
So I’m going to wear something lame, or nothing at all a la Patch Adams, and then change into my dress post-ceremony. Super diva-ish, but trust me, you wouldn’t want to claim me if you saw me walking that stage looking like…well, that.