. . . . .

"Monks do sports? Barbara, monks do sports!"

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What seems quiet around here has been nonstop busyness for me. Not the kind you can explain, either. The kind that seems to come flooding up suddenly because you forgot to do a bunch of stuff until now. Or you ignored it so it would take care of itself or go away, and it didn't, but it did get bigger, dire, or too scary to look at or touch without disposable gloves.

You do that too? Oh good.

***

Romulus for instance needs a shave but no one will do it until mid-April I find out now that I get around to calling because the fur is making me reel--matted clods the size of whole cats, recall, on the furniture, rugs, in corners of the rooms (didn't I just clean that?)--is making me sneeze and dread spring a little when it starts to get much worse. But no one will do it because he bites unless he's etherized on a table. It takes three of us to bathe him, they said. So. We suffer together.

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&.

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