The sun was long gone, so I stayed in bed

Things one says to the cat of an afternoon:

"In this house, we do not eat cream cheese that's turned pink. In the immortal words of Norman Wisdom, it ain't worth it."

I was making myself a bagel, having already rewarded the brave cat with lox for enduring with minimal deployment of the hiss word her annual physical with her GP. She is recuperating on my desk with bird theater, the pair of mourning doves on the telephone wires and the little flutters of sparrows delectably shivering the cold-beaded drops of the yew needles. I found some ordinary-colored cream cheese.