These are my cats, The Sir and Monica.

This is the food I lovingly feed to The Sir and Monica from a special crystal dish.


This is the sixty dollar medicine I dilligently apply to The Sir and Monica’s fur every month.

This is the house that belongs to the sweet, elderly woman down the street where Monica, for reasons known exclusively to her, has decided she would rather live.


Okay, so actually this is a picture I got off the internet–I forget where, exactly.  I didn’t figure the sweet, elderly woman would appreciate me putting a picture of her house on my website.  Plus, that would involve me going over and actually taking a picture of her house, which seems sort of creepy/stalker-ish.

This is a picture of where The Sir, also for reasons known solely to him, is making his new home.

Notice that there is no picture.  Because he has apparently changed his identity and entered the Witness Protection Program.  I can’t find him anywhere.  Over the years I have discovered him living with various people.  These people include (but are not limited to): a charming family from Mississippi with a red minivan; a group of Hispanic construction workers who mistook him for a pregnant mother cat and were feeding him from their own lunches and letting him sleep at their work site; and my personal favorite–five blonde sorority girls who found him at their back door and installed him as the king of their new condo.

This time, however, all of my efforts to locate him have failed, hence  the Witness Protection Program theory.  I guess wriggling out of his 57th reflective collar with engraved ID tag and taking off for an extended stay somewhere wasn’t good enough; he decided to get reconstructive surgery and leave forever.  He’s probably  lounging at some blonde twenty-something’s apartment right now, licking his new gray-striped fur, not remembering me at all. 

In other words, being a typical guy.  But what can I do?  I love him.  Which means when–or if–he decides to drag his sorry $#! back home, I’ll take him back.