The KillJoy of Marlinspike Hall

I suffered Kitten Meltdown this afternoon. It's difficult to say what event or behavior, or combination thereof, pushed me over the line. Everyone else in The Manor seemed to be in excellent spirits.

Trust me to be The KillJoy of Marlinspike Hall.

Before my eruption, I was documenting various Feline Antics: the chewing of the purse, stupidly left within Kitten Reach -- and a couple of the very frequent skirmishes between Dobby and Buddy.  Dobby is coming out of his funk and enjoying the Wee One, until he doesn't, at which point he flees in a serious way or sneaks into my closet (he can both open and close the door).

Oh -- not to worry, we have plans to paint all the doors and trim that were ruined in the early days by some fool lacking the dexterity to steer her wheelchair.  Nightmare days, those were.  With Captain Haddock's permission, we may even paint an accent wall or two.  Fred wants to grace our Private Quarters with a triptych of mural work -- but a critical ear and some funky past experiences with sheetrock, plaster, and gesso suggest that he may go all Diego Rivera in the bedroom.  I mean, I can be as nationalistic as the next Tête de Hergéen, and probably more revolutionary than most, but social realism all in my befuddled, sleepy face would might render insomnia a permanent condition.  Burly workers arm-in-arm with thunder-thighed cultural icons?  Can you say "gastroesophageal reflux"?

Umm, yeah, so back to CatCam for Sunday!

I don't know if Fred is going to drop in to elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle anytime soon, but if he does:  Sweet cheeks, I love you!  I appreciate you, am grateful for your constant gifts, and am so sorry not to convey that love and gratitude anywhere near frequently enough.  You bless me. 

Thank you for saving me from the insane kitten.  Oh, and from self-pity, from self-indulgence -- that, too!

There is no way that we could keep up this pace of moving from one stressful thing to the next without some correction -- of ourselves, and with a helpful sharp nudge to the diaphragm of the other!  (With our connections, we can always schedule a celiac plexus ablation...)

Is there any wonder that small, funny moments with cats are moments of grace?

And what do you think of maybe a trompe l'oeil ceiling, Dear One -- à la Jacob de Wit or, ummm, Andrea Mantegna?  Not that your work, my Darling Muffin, could ever be considered derivative.