Just Us

Chico is the furry one.

I've picked up some kind of something.

Stress? Germs? Too much hockey and too much talking?

Maybe. Who knows, and really, does it matter?

So I did the (nearly) unthinkable: A lot of nothing.

I watched baseball. Hockey. M*A*S*H. I took a few walks outside. I sat in a chair and talked to Paul.

This was simply fate (and schedule) coming together. I passed on a few games this weekend (a variety of reasons and fate agreed), so here I am.

One thing to note: I'm fiercely proud of the number of games I've done, but the number is truly irrelevant. You can broadcast 500 games a year but if the quality is meh, then what's the point?

I've done 104 (approximately) since last September. I've probably lost another 20 to circumstances (weather, conflicts, and let's just say money and leave it at that).

I have a smart audience.

So it's just Chico and me in the homestead. He comes in, meows, sleeps, meows some more, pushes for food, and sleeps.

Then he'll disappear. Then he'll return. And repeat.

In that regard, he's perfect (or purr-fect, but my god, I cringe just typing that).

Pets, of course, are so smart. He wants company, and he has this insane ability to know when I need a friend.

So here we are.

And, as usual, he's dominating the space on my bed.

Just another night.