Being a convert to cat adoration, I'm still often surprised by Sasso's smarts. I had plans to remain under the covers this morning until I'd finished The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler, but with scarcely a dozen pages unread, my plans were thwarted by feline impatience. Sass had watched me weave to the bathroom, throw on a t-shirt and make like the next move would be to the kitchen - the normal routine. The next step is usually a stroll to the cocina for breakfast and the (virtual) morning papers, all accompanied by the skitter of cat claws, kibble crunching and the scratchy violence of kitty litter being cast about in the laundry. But this morning I headed back to the bed, grabbed up Mr. Chandler and was diving back into Marlowe's troubles when an exposed foot received a few polite taps from a furry and padded paw. Just four taps. Not even a tickle. But defined and definitely purposeful. You're running late. This is not good for my schedule. Up. And so I went. Skitter. Crunch. Scatter.
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