She drones on about the porno magazines she found in the closet, the dead mouse she found in her winter clothes, the 3 dollars she found in the pocket of her jacket that she was sure my brother stole but now she is apologizing to me instead of him.
I�m pretty sure my mother invented drivel. I could be wrong, but I don�t think I am. It might sound mean, but that�s not the right word for it. You�ve never met my mother. You�ve never listened to her rattle on in an incoherent pitch that sounds like a cannon rolling around loose inside a gymnasium.
She is terrified I�ll move far away and leave her here, alone. She resents me because my and Blue�s presence is breathing new life into her old Empty Nest Syndrome. She wants me to promise that I won�t move away in January, but I can�t do that. I want out of here. I. Want. Out. Yesterday.
I haven�t seen Basil in two days. It�s fairly cold outside now, but he is the toughest cat I know outside of the late Mokey. When I was two years old I picked, to my mother�s great dismay, the tiniest and ugliest kitten in the litter. The one who�s own mother had accidentally chewed his tail off at birth leaving him with a grotesque stub. Then, I named him Mokey. My poor mother. Basil was also the runt of the litter and likewise grew up to be the toughest cat on the block. Even after my landlord had me declaw him, his ferocity continued to grow.
I�m going to go hunt down the hunter. Basil needs pets, I can feel it. I bet he's hungry and too proud to admit it.
