When p.j. and I got together along came her cat who was sixteen years of age and hadn't lost a step. The third time in an afternoon my ankles were attacked I reached down to scruff the offending moggie (who weighed 4.5lbs) and sort out who was boss.

Picture the event...I miss her scruff and get her a littel low, over the ribs. I'm screaming NOOOOOOOOOOOO at the top of my not inconsiderable lungs as I'm trying to peel the cat off of one forearm, then the next , then the other, much as if the cat were a new highly adhesive treble-hooked compound of Velco and flypaper. All I'm doing is bleeding and providing the cat with some light recreation. The cat is talking about my mother and calling me everything but a child of God when p.j. appears at the rescue. p.j.'s no damn good 'cause she's paralytic with laughter at the scene of the cat and I blowing each other's whiskers back swearing at each other.

The cat and I eventually became best buddies and shared a happy eighteen months until she went to the great scratching post in the sky.

Here's the point...they'll look old and feeble, but don't write 'em off, they can still have a few tricks to teach the untutored.

May happy returns of the day to Camo.

D