bubba

Bubba arrived last night. He looked at me. He ate. He then ran off into the garden avoiding the snipers on the roof. He seems to run in a zigzag motion. Perhaps his disregard for Euclid's theory of negotiating distance should be taken into account. I'm going to ponder this one. Perhaps a quick glass of Canadian Mist will help clear my head. Ah, speaking of which, my female feline companion has just arrived with two highballs. A well trained cat. Although a bit early.

Perhaps Bubba is an existentialist. He did look back at me after that zigzag run... existentialists are always doing that sort of thing.

Book boxing went splendidly yesterday afternoon. I worked diligently until I ran into Nabokov's short stories. It wouldn't fit into the box so I soothed it by taking it into the garden and swinging it gently in the hammock. I read my favorite story about a young man, Simpson visiting a school chum at his grand manor in the country. Poor Simpson is tempted by a lemon offered by a beautiful Venetian lady cast in oils and finds himself inside her portrait. A rather frightful turn of events, if you ask me, but far from unlikely. When I felt the collection of stories had recovered sufficiently we returned to the indoors and I placed it in a new box, a fresh box with more witty conversationalists. I then inspected my three formal companions, also cast in oils, and questioned their intentions for the week ahead. I spied no citrus, nor any other objects of enticing nature. I decided to ensure more cordial relations and have made plans to offer sacrifices this evening. Hopefully the masters of the house don't plan on bringing their cow to their next abode. Perhaps I should place a call.

A thunderstorm is imminent. A fine morning to box books.