Why can't I quit you, Arlo?

I think I've mentioned our tuxedo cat, Arlo, a time or two. He's the one that likes me. (Willis, the other one, is a crabby old curmudgeon who wishes I'd move to the moon.) The trouble with Arlo is that he likes me too much. He is always in my face, licking it (or my ears), giving me little love bites, and generally being a pain. Sometimes he just lies across my face and zones out, which does not enhance my nap-taking experience. Here's an example of his pushy behavior:

As you can imagine, sometimes it's hard for me to breathe.

Then, just when I'm about to get up and "mistake" him for one of my stuffed animals and shake him until his eyeballs rattle, he'll decide to at least uncover my mouth. It's like he knows just how far he can push me.

I think he also knows that I like him, too--though I'll be darned if I know why I like him. Maybe you've got a friend or relative like that.

Decisions, decisions . . .

M decided to throw out his 30-year-old La-Z-Boy rocker today, but it was a tough call.

For a while I thought we might be going with it.

They shall mount up with wings as eagles.

M and J were over at Grandma Grace's apartment the other day going through her belongings. J found this old comic that Grandma had clipped from the newspaper, laminated, and stuck on the fridge with a magnet. M says to fully appreciate it you have to know that Grandma was a licensed pilot.