I am in Roslindale with the cats. Hestia is grooming herself in a spill of sunshine in the dining room. Autolycus is engaged in a life-or-death struggle with the balloon I gave him on Sunday. (It was my birthday balloon on Friday, but it is a better present for hunters.) He attempts to capture it by its ribbon and carry it off to his lair. Alas, it does not fit under the dining room table. Inevitably it gets away and bobs back to ceiling-height with temptingly dangling ribbon and he goes after it with teeth and claws again. Watching him determinedly tow the balloon around the apartment is adorable beyond words, especially when all I can see is the bright-foiled "Happy Birthday" lurking beyond the end of the table and occasionally a quick black paw darting up at the ribbon. I have told him so. He does need his claws trimmed, as does Hestia: the one time the balloon bobbed too near my arm in its escape, he drew blood. Small sacrifices.
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- 1: And they won't thank you, they don't make awards for that
- 2: But the soft and lovely silvers are now falling on my shoulder
- 3: What does it do when we're asleep?
- 4: Now where did you get that from, John le Carré?
- 5: Put your circuits in the sea
- 6: Sure as the morning light when frigid love and fallen doves take flight
- 7: No one who can stand staying landlocked for longer than a month at most
- 8: And in the end they might even thank me with a garden in my name
- 9: I'd marry her this minute if she only would agree
- 10: And me? Well, I'm just the narrator
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