martinimade

Mooch would like you to know that he is wet and cold. And that Scott and I suck.

See, in the early morning race to get ourselves out of the door, by the end of which both the Dude and the Diva were in the backseat screaming their respective skulls off, Mooch ran out of the back door. He does this all of the time. On nice days, I encourage the cats to go outside and stalk undergrads.

Today was not a nice day. Winds were just shy of gale-force, whipping branches off of trees and creating fanciful sculptures out of my hair. The skies were, at best, ominous. A cold rain was forecast and was moments away from pelting all of us.

Once I drove away with the screaming bundles (honestly, there's just somethign about Thursday that brings out the worst in all of us), Scott tried to convince Mooch to come back in, lest he be swept away to Oz. I don't know why Scott felt compelled to do this. It's not like either of us actually like Mooch.

Mooch would not be persuaded. The coming storm was just kicking up too many new smells. So Scott left.

I pulled into the driveway at noon. My drive home was littered with fallen branches and huge puddles. My socks and pants and shoes are still soaked from my 10 a.m. dash across campus and it is now a balmy 57 degrees. Soon, I shall go put on a flannel shirt, my second official flannel shirt of the fall. (The first was yesterday, when the morning mercury was at 40.)

Mooch turned up at the sliding glass door about ten minutes after I walked in. He is wet, which cats just looooove, and, I assume, chilly. He is still glaring at me whenever I walk past his perch on the couch, like this is somehow completely my fault.

So I thought I'd spread the guilt, just like a cat would. Mooch is wet and cold. And you are all complicit in his wet coldness, simply because you exist. Now give me tuna.

In other news, Fall, my most favorite season ever, has truly begun. Let the celebrations commence.