This morning, Roderick was in a rush to get to his summer job at the boathouse. Mrs. Smith served a big plate of scrapple and applesauce. He inhaled it in record time and departed.
I had my customary breakfast of raw chicken livers. There was a problem this morning -- my kill was not at room temperature. I spurned it and glared at Mrs. Smith, who apologized and warmed my food with her hands for a few minutes.
You really have to keep the servants on their toes, or they get into bad habits.
With Roderick gone for the day, I was at loose ends. I didn’t want to hang out with Laddie -- please -- so I decided to go visit Mom. She lives with Mrs. Peacock over on Cherry Street. Not far at all.
On the way, I stopped to spy on Natasha and her eunuch kitties. Henry Witherspoon was with her. He was naked, for some reason, and she was penciling in her sketch pad.
Henry Witherspoon is not a eunuch.
Matisse the Siamese gelding spotted me from the second-floor window. He was not happy to see me, but there was nothing he could do. Natasha does not let her dickless cats go outside.
I sprayed the woodpile, just for lulz.
Cutting through Zemlinsky’s yard, I crossed Dogwood Street near the spot where Willie met his demise. Poor little Willie.
I stopped for a moment in the Blooms' back yard. Molly was banging away on the piano, doing her scales. That girl has discipline. She’s a black belt in karate, too. Roderick says Donny Clapper squeezed her ass in the hallway and she floored him.
The kitty door to Mrs. Peacock’s kitchen was open, so I went inside. In the living room, Mary Bloom sat reading an Elsie Dinsmore story aloud to Mrs. Peacock, who was half asleep on the couch.
Mom woke from her nap and greeted me. She looked great. Mom’s most def a MILF, or perhaps I should say a CILF. This may disturb human readers, but there is no incest taboo among cats. If she weren’t neutered I’d be interested.
I asked Mom if she’s seen Dad lately. She said no. Dad lives with the Fulbrights on Quince Street, on the other side of Main. He’s up in years and has arthritis, and doesn’t like to cross the street. I should go and see him.
On the way home, I stopped again to listen as Molly played the scherzo from Beethoven's Opus 2 #3. Very good. Those triplets in the right hand in the Trio are wicked hard, as they say in the Boston suburbs. I’d try to play them myself if I had fingers.
Too many pianists play the early Beethoven sonatas like they can’t wait to finish and move on to something hard. Molly plays with a leisurely tempo, in the European style, as if she enjoys the music and doesn’t want it to end.
At home, Laddie wanted to tell me all about his day, the high point of which was taking a dump on the berm near the corner of Elm and Fifteenth. I didn’t stick around.
All for now.