Friday, October 3, 2008


I have company every time I come home for lunch. All God's creatures might be sacked out on my bed sleeping, but just let me open a bread bag and Jester comes running. He jumps onto the counter, purring loudly, and tries to horn in during my sandwich making. He has no concept of personal space. I have been known, on occasion, to crack him in the head with my knuckles if he gets too close. This seems to work marginally well. The other day, I had a beef roast in the crock pot. When I came home for lunch, I took the lid off so that I could shred up the meat. Of course, my old friend was sitting on the counter watching every move I made. I turned my back for a second to put a fork into the sink, and turned back just in time to see him dipping into the crock pot with his paw. Thankfully, I yelled before he actually touched anything - he would have burned himself for sure. Then I got to thinking - as distasteful as it is to imagine his dirty little toes in my supper, perhaps burning said toes would have solved this little problem. I don't know...

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