It looks like rain again. We’ve hardly had a day this summer when it hasn’t rained. Sammy the Singing Cat is sitting outside my window, waiting for me to let him in. He’s not likely to get wet, sitting under the eaves like he is, but he looks worried. There’s thunder in the distance and the sky is turning very dark.
This morning he brought me a possum, so tiny it was hardly more than a fetus. But alive. Zack, the minister/painter who is skim-coating and painting my kitchen, remarked how long his claws were. I think you need long claws, if you’re a possum. I asked Zack if we could do something to help the little creature. He said he couldn’t mother a possum.
Sammy, meanwhile, was rolling over and over, so proud of what he’d done. Disgusting cat.
The plumber, George, who was also here this morning, says we have a broken pipe under the concrete slab in the unfinished room. I could have done without that bit of news. My kitchen is a total wreck, dishes, pots and pans, all the kitchen paraphernalia piled in the laundry room, dining room, Florida room. It will be at least another week before I can bring some order into my life.