A Failure to Communicate
It’s Bucks again. Now what? “You woke me from a nice dream.”
“I’m surprised that you have time for naps with all your blogging.”
“You’re always blogging. You’re a blog hog. Sheesh! You’ll probably be on Facebook next, telling people about your exciting trip to the litter box.”
“What is your problem?”
“You’ve been taking over our blog. Just look. Scroll back . . .23, 22, 21 . . . .
“Well here’s an idea. Why don’t you write something?”
“I was going to, but you hid my notes.”
“You hid my notes . . . or moved them . . . or something.”
“And you’ve looked all over I suppose.” He’s such a twit sometimes.
“Of course I’ve looked. I’ve gone through that whole cat pile on the desk. They’re gone.”
“When did you see them last?” He’d lose his tail if it wasn’t glued on.
“I don’t remember. Week or two ago I guess.”
“Two weeks? It takes two weeks to write a hundred words for your Buckminster blog?”
“It’s complicated, Amber. And I need my notes.”
“Where did you leave them?”
“On the desk, right next to your stuff and I’m pretty sure you moved them.”
“Bucks, I did not move your precious notes. Come on. I’ll help you find them.”
I admit there’s quite a lot of papers here . . . lawyerly stuff, agreement papers . . . escrow.
“What’s this paper? ‘Fear Fur Flying,’ has been cat scratched at the top.”
“That’s it! Where was it?”
“Underneath some legal papers. What’s this ‘Flying’ thing about?”
“It’s complicated and I need to do some more research. It's not easy getting information.”
“Right. Whatever. Do you mind if I go back to sleep now? There’s a sun beam coming through the window . . . nice and warm.”
“You’re going to think warm in a month or so,” he tells me. Wonder what he means by that? I’m curious.