Happy Holidays to All

Christmas Kitten says "merry, merry," or was what meow? 

We have a house guest with cat now, who arrived with cat because the cat care pooped out at the last possible moment.  The cat, a half-grown adorable kitten is napping in the guest room (where else?) after her long ride from NYC.  The ginger cat, formerly known as the orange cat, is quite aware that there's another cat in the house.  Thisbe, the neurotic cat, has disappeared, probably under my bed.   A household with 3 cats and soon to hold 3 guests is a busy household, plus we're taking care of the neighbor's dog next door.   4 animals, 3 guests, 2 householders.   We'll have to see how it goes.  Some excursions planned too.   I'm just hoping it's not too chaotic.

Comings and going at Logan tomorrow.  Decent weather, still.  The Pats won today after a fingernail-chewing first half.  Food is under control, presents under the tree.

 The first Christmas I remember, in  Parsons, Kansas, I got a little toy cooking pot filled with pink mints.  Odd the gifts one remembers.  We also got a chocolate turkey and carved a slice off him every day.  My juvenile mind didn't understand why we couldn't just eat the whole thing.  Memory is weird, as Proust will tell you.  For 2,000 pages he can tell you.   Joyeux Noel, and Merry Christmas to all.

Cat on Desk

The Good Life.

Thisbe on desk in the middle of everything

The Lion and the Lamb

For anyone who recalls my blog posts of midsummer from Thisbe, with ripostes by the "Orange Outrage," well, peace reigns as they both sleep close together on the couch in the downstairs home office. Couldn't believe my  eyes.

Thisbe has been peaceable lately, with just one loud hiss announcing she did NOT like the "Orange Outrage" on Mommy's side of the bed.  That is HER territory, although she prefers the little Indian rug by my side of the bed.  They are eating each other's food and rubbing noses occasionally.  

Two cats in Harmony and Peace

Who would have thunk it?

Grapeshot

An uneasy truce

My mistress insists on taking over the blog today, so I'll hunker down for a nap.  The Orange Outrage and I have established an uneasy truce.  I catch hell all the time for trying to nosh on his Meow Mix.  I get  Atkins for kitties which I liked just fine until I tasted his chow.  My sources have told me the O.O. has been commenting on my blogging, and nothing complimentary either.  Well, as I always say, a cats gotta do what a cats gotta do.   Oooops!  Here's my mistress now.  Waving a paw goodbye. 

Back from the Peach State.  I brought (by local prices) about $8.00 worth of fresh figs home.  They weathered the trip.  The next day, we had a delicious pizza with  ricotta, the figs, prosciutto, fresh spinach and a sprinkle of mozzarella.  Beautiful and good.

I had the opportunity to swig some "White Lightnin" (vintage) while in GA, a real eye opener in more ways than one.  Mild and  flavorful with a mulish kick.  Yowza! 

On Sunday we went to a part forty miles east of Athens in farm country.  The host has an acreage, with cattle and a huge garden.  We ate his beef, tomatoes, peppers, okra, corn  and figs.  He has a structure with a big barbecue, counters, tables, chairs, ceiling fans--a kind of country folly.  He also has a one room house with all the amenities, but furnished with country stuff.   Just big enough to relax in the easy chairs or spend the night on the sofa bed.  With AC and a loo.  What a collection of cast iron!  I love cast iron.  Now, if I could only locate my popover pans.  Hope I didn't sell them.  

The Atlanta airport has a new (to me) feature, whereby a train takes the traveler to the car rental facility, and also back to the airport.  Pretty slick.  They told me, "pick out any car in the row next to the trees."  I navigated without GPS and of course the computer instructions had one glitch which left me stopping for directions at a barbecue place.  I do love Southern barbecue.  The Georgia botanic garden was wonderful in spite of the heat which was ferocious.

Back to the laundry, cleaning, and yes, writing.  Book will be done soon, then the rewrite.  I want to work on some short stories while I'm letting it lie fallow.  The garden is tremendous and we are eating beans, tomatoes and lots of fresh herbs.  Wild salmon is in the stores.  Life is good.

Grapeshot

Back to you Thisbe!

Yawn.

Peace now!

The "Orange Outrage," also known as the Interloper, and lately known as Someone I May Eventually Like.  This cat is so smart.  He's been biding his time, quiet and effacing without being a pansy.  What he would like do to most is to go outside and each all the birds and chipmunks some respect.  He knows enough to take the high ground.  As a fellow cat, I respect these things. I would like to teach the chipmunks respect, too.   Last night we had another face-to-face and after my mistress calmed me, I was pretty cool with everything and we weren't more than a few feet apart and both chilling. We got treats for behaving so well.

  I smelled his food dish and didn't eat it, as he has been respectful of mine, and we share the litter box with no issues.  Well, I have issues about burying, but we won't dwell on those.

His smell is all over the house, as is mine, and it doesn't make me freak anymore.  In fact, I haven't freaked for days and we are no longer kept apart except for one daily socialization.  We're happy to be indoors in the terrible heat that makes a cat shed fur by the carload.  It must make him think of his old home in Northern Nevada where coyotes howl outside of town.  Makes me nervous to think about coyotes.  I would be a meal and a half.  Yikes!  Maybe they would devour the neighborhood chickens first.  I think I'm too big for the fox, but my mistress thinks otherwise.

This afternoon we can enjoy naps, baths and more naps.  I excel at napping.

Thisbe, at peace at least temporarily

A Desultory Hiss

I spent a nice day on the home office couch, bathing and undisturbed.  Late in the evening, I ventured upstairs for food, water, toilet and meds.  The Orange Outrage was on a chair in the dining room.  I didn't even notice him at first, and when I did, I gave him a desultory hiss. He didn't bother to return my greeting. Standoffish.
 My mistress calmed me, as always, and I decided to watch the fireworks from the Esplanade in Boston rather than create some fireworks of my own.  A lazy day makes a lazy cat.  Meditation is good.
What does this mean?  Have I accepted the Interloper?  My mistress, who knows me well, remarked that there could be "setbacks," and "don't everyone get their hopes up."  Whatever can she mean?
Everyone went to bed and the orange outrage disappeared into his chambers in the guest room.  I continued my snooze.  Let's see what the morrow brings.  

Thisbe, who has somewhat calmed herself.  The picture is not of me, but of the dessert my mistress made.  Everyone ooohed and awwed. It didn't even smell like catnip or fancy feast or Atkins for Kitties.

Saturday: A Day of Rest

Everyone left the house yesterday, and the Interloper was locked in the bedroom, which apparently he likes, lolling on the bed all day like a sultan.  I, on the otherhand, slept on the basement sofa, like the queen I am.  The Interloper was leery about coming down after everyone was home, and I gave him a pass by staying downstairs in the home office, which was cool.  Treats were dispensed, along with what my mistress called "meds," which is some device that she sticks into my hide twice a day.  It doesn't hurt, and I am calm because petting, schmoozing and treats are forthcoming.  A cat would be crazy to object.

This morning, OTOH, I emerged from said home office to find the Interloper sitting in the kitchen, big as you please.  He jumped on a chair.  Rats!  He has enough sense to always take the high ground.  We both spat, and I growled until my mistress calmed me with a back massage.  Then I slunk around.  Yowsa!  We both got treats, and since I was forbidden my drama queen act, I retreated to the coolness of the home office.  The Interloper is still on a chair, and quite comfy in my house.  Grrrr.  And again grrrr.

He uses my litter box and had the audacity to "mark" it, after I had marked it, but someone scrubbed it off.  Being a cat is a hard slog through life and endless difficulties.  My mistress says she would like to "come back" as a cat in her household, whatever that means.  People are very mysterious, and not catlike at all.

Off for another nap.  This patrolling of the house and asserting my rights as First Cat is very wearisome.  

Thisbe

Truce Declared

The Interloper and I have spent some time together.  He seems leery of me and hunkers down under the table or on a chair.  Of course, whoever has the high ground has an advantage.  I have only spat at him a bit, and went easy on the growls and didn't snarl once.  My mistress claims she is pleased with my progress.  I ignored the new toy but not the new treats. 
I must say all the excitement has been well, exciting and of course, I've always been a bit of a drama queen.  I have heard rumors of a spray bottle of water in case I get too feisty.  Must investigate.  In the meantime, naptime!

Thisbe, who is hanging in there and specializes in fierce looks.

Another Catfrontation

Last night the interloper dared come downstairs into the home office where I like to hang out.  I chased him back upstairs and under the dining room table.  My mistress tried to calm me by pushing me down and petting me, and I must say I did feel calmer.
The interloper sat under the table for a while, and I watched him, and then I turned my back.  We weren't looking at each other, and I was feeling a tad more accepting.  He is a handsome fellow, all orange with whitish stripes.  He's skinny, too, and obviously needs none of my "Atkins for kitties."   Rather a whole batch of fried chicken livers.  I, of course do not eat "people" food.   Diet nibbles, Fancy Feast tender beef (beef, not "beer" dammit)  and bottled water for me.

We had another little meeting in the middle of the night, and it was less frenzied.  Didn't realize I could run that fast.  Ah well,  exercise is  part of a cat's regimen, a smallish part of mine.

Talleyho!  Maybe another game of chase-y face awaits.

Thisbe (who insists on being the dominant cat).  After all, it's my house.

Another Face to Face

So there I was yesterday, schmoozing with my mistress in her bedroom, when in walks the house guest (HG) carrying this intruder.  My god!  He's still here.  I had hoped my nose was deceiving me.

He spat!  Viciously.
I spat!  Just as vicious.

We were separated, and he went back to the guest room.  I sniffed at the door with a ferocious big tail.  Then I was able to calm myself and go downstairs.  I overheard that he, too, had calmed himself.  So this event was not as stressful as prior ones, when my fear made me go ballistic. 

I suspect he's been eating my food and using the litter box, a cat's most private place.  What have things come to?  I think I'll retreat to my basement.  My mistress is always solicitous of me when I'm in a funk.

Thisbe

Biding My Time

That "new" cat is still here.  I can feel him.  I can smell him.  Sometimes, I think I hear his yodeling.  I stay in the home office downstairs and take naps in the cedar closet.  After everyone but my mistress goes to bed, I come upstairs for Mommy/Kitty time.  Mommy/Kitty time is the best.  One of my scratching posts has disappeared, a suspicious circumstance. 

I haven't gone batshit again, but I don't have to like this.  Now I'm napping on the sofa.  Downstairs is cool without the summer heat.  Fur is warm enough.  I have a cream-colored cross on my chest, and sometimes my sobriquet is "Sacred Kitty." 

Maybe the Pope will adopt me.  I've heard he likes cats.  I love my mistress, and I know she's not responsible for bringing a new cat into MY HOUSE.  How dare they?  The thought makes my tail twitch. 

At least I'm getting my treats regularly and there's always a little can of moist food in my dish when I trek upstairs in the evening.  Good things come in small cans. Life has been stressful and a cat likes peace and quiet.    Why do humans have such a hard time understanding that.  Change is bad.  Repeat after me.  Change is bad.

Enough.  Back to napping.  Aloha.

Thisbe

In Disgrace

I went batsh_t and chased one of the houseguests up the stairs this morning, spitting and growling.  My mistress called the vet.  I overheard her talking while I was sulking and having private time in the cedar closet.  When I emerged I was very lovey and hiding my Attila the Hun on Steroids side.   I can't believe it myself how fierce and protective of my turf I've become.  The Vet said it was a territorial thing.

I don't know where the other cat it, but I can smell him in the living room.  As long as he's not in my face, everything is just fine.  As long as no one is in my face, which I am currently washing.  I find that vigorous grooming relaxes me.  It's what a cat does, after all, and  A CAT'S GOTTA DO WHAT A CAT'S GOTTA DO. If I could paint or knit or whatever, do anything except clawing, I would put that on every wall in the house.

I'm going upstairs for a snack and to watch the Red Sox, which is something else I always do.  I  sit on the rug and my mistress reaches down and pets me and all is well.

Anti-anxiety meds were mentioned and I don't want no pills.  Egad, my diabetes shots are bad enough.  I feel like I could demolish 40 chipmunks and take on a fox.  Well, maybe not.

Attila on Steroids, aka Thisbe

I made a total ass of myself

So, the strange cat smells continued, but I was pretty cool with that.  The lawn mowers came with their dastardy noisy machines this a.m., and therefore I retreated, as is my wont, to the cedar closet.

My mistress came home and I was just coming to greet her, when our house guest, whom I have known for years, approached with a strange cat!  We rubbed noses, and what can I say, this was NOT the cat I had expected.  I growled and spat.  He retreated.  I raised my fur and fluffed my tail out until I was huge.  I lunged.  I spat.  I growled.  I totally lost control.  Strange cat retreated to a chair in his room.  I continued my advance until herded out of the room.  I growled and spa at the guest.

My mistress said this wasn't what she had expected of a gracious hostess.  Everyone said, "well, back to square one.  We tried to do this too fast."  I sulked for a while.

Later, they opened the storeroom door, and I got another look at the strange cat.  A handsome orange Tom.  Now he spat at me.  I went into the room and climbed into his carrier; that was when he spat.  I sniffed the bedding which smell somewhat like me.  WTF?

We stared at each other for a good long time, in a kind of Mexican standoff.  Everyone seemed pleased and we both received treats.  I feel somewhat better now.

What does the morrow hold?

Thisbe

Cat Blog Day

Sometimes I blog about the cat, and now it's the cat's turn to do a bit of kitty blogging.  Thisbe will be 11 years old next month.  She is diabetic AND fat.  It takes a long time for her to bathe her vast stomach.  She has recently lost her forever housemate, Annie, and has grieved for a month.  She's getting back to normal, but what she doesn't know if that a house guest is bringing his male cat for a month's stay. And a young guest that Thisbe has never really cottoned to is also coming.  Thisbe has always been a "fraidy cat."  Her world is going to be turned upside down.  Cats hate change.  How will Thisbe greet her new housemate?  Will she be a gracious hostess?  Share?  Is our household going to be topsy-turvy?  Stay tuned.  Rulon, the (neutered) orange male has a 12 hour trip from the West Coast today.  He won't be in a very good mood, although he is a sweetheart.  Yikes! 

How do you celebrate a cat's birthday?

Thisbe is nine years old today, a gift from a friend whose cat had a litter of kittens. S.O. brought her home in a cardboard box when she was eight weeks old and Annie, her housemate, has never forgiven me. We thought Annie needed a companion, but she said, "Big mistake! Take her back!" and wouldn't look at me for six months.

Now, they tolerate each other, although Thisbe was terribly upset when Annie had a seizure, and stopped eating for two days.

She has a new mouse and received an extra ration of catnip. We can't have a party because she hates anyone except the people she knew in her kittenhood. Workmen are the worst! A few growls and then zook! under the bed for the rest of the day.

Thisbe likes moist cat food, dry cat food, her special brand (Kookamonga) catnip, furry gray mouse toys, fresh water, cat grass, Mommy, Daddy and sleeping in the linen closet and luxurious relaxed baths on the living room rug, lying on her back and washing her paws and her chest. Bathing to classical music is best.

The life of a cat in this household is the life of Riley. Remember. Dogs have masters. Cats have staff.

Grapeshot

Typical Day in the Life of a Retiree

Awake at nine and a half-hour in bed with coffee and the still-with-us Boston Globe. Cat comes up for lovey time. Plunks herself down in mid-paper. How sweet it is.

Down to the kitchen and make blueberry pancakes out of yesterday's waffle batter. Two slices of bacon per person, our idea of dieting. It warn't turkey bacon, either.

Clean up kitchen, spot clean tablecloth and throw in a load of laundry. Monday is still washday.

Give Thisbe her insulin shot.

Onto computer for email, blogging, and working on today's reading for the writing group. Wrote 4 pages yesterday. Good for me.

Shower, etc.

Off to Walmart for cat litter, insulin needles, cat food and a few assorted groceries. I used to scorn Walmart, before retirement and the cats many needs.

Looking for rhubard for rhubard bread later in week. Hope it's not $5.99 per lb. again.

Drop off key for cat sitter with instructions.

Baking food processor bread, and freeform blueberry tart. Dinner is a salad with grilled steak (cooked last night) on top.

Watch a little Wimbleton.

Water houseplants.

Print out reading for tonight.

Wine and cheese, then dinner. La-de-dah!

Off to writing group.

Blueberry tart. Maybe a little reading or TV. Insulin to cat again.

Read more of Eat, Pray, Love on Kindle. Lights out!

Queries: the long and the short of it

After my last post, at 10:44 this morning, I tackled the list of agents appearing in the spring at a writing conference. First I had to separate those I had already queried and from which book. I went through their web sites and discovered some didn't take genre writing and others accepted only non-fiction. Some had already rejected one book or another. The list had really shrunk by the time I parsed the whole thing. It also hurts if the agent has no web site. Will they like a so-called high tech novel? I think not.

Went upstairs and made and consumed a turkey sandwich. Ah man! What could be better than thin sliced white meat on thin sliced white bread with slatherings of mayo and sprinkled with salt and pepper with thin sliced tomatoes and a big leaf of lettuce thrown in to salve the conscience? Yum! Add a few slices of Mrs. Fannings pickles and a few potato chips.

When I got on the scale this morning, the first thought was: how can my pajamas have gained four pounds? Then, I thought: no, it has to be water. Lots of water.

Ye gods! I put on my gym clothes with good intentions for a walk or a visit to the gym, but the rains came and the weather was dark and cold and I didn't feel like going to the gym. As evidenced above, I felt like scarfing down some more of the turkey.

Thisbe's diabetes is much improved, and her coat is so much softer. She is eating Atkins for kitties and the fancy high-priced moist food. Yesterday, most unaccountably, she begged for roast turkey while I was slicing it for dinner. Ate some. Ate some more. When I fixed my sandwich she asked for more. And again.

This from a cat who never eats people food. Well, not since yesterday. It's good high-quality protein, I tell myself when Thisbe and I both feel like a bit of a nosh. This is amazing. I wonder if her body knows this is a good thing in her current state of health. My body only knows that it likes to eat.

Back down to the agents: After all was said and done, I found two, one for Festival Madness and one for World of Mirrors. Nobody for Promiscuous mode, which was the whole point of the exercise. So one email and one SnailMail query have gone out. It's 3:45 and the day is gone. Few queries and no exercise.

I will visit my drug lord. Maybe he'll talk to me. And then again . . . .

Grapeshot

All Is Forgiven

Last night, Thisbe joined us in the living room in front of the fireplace and indicated that "all is forgiven." I went into the kitchen, prepared the syringe, brought it into the living room, swabbed her fur, and gave her the injection, which she appeared not to notice. These are small, fine needles, and that went rather well. She was unfortunately under the bed having "private" time this evening, and I had to wait rather longer than proper timing indicated, but when we got back from my writing group she was waiting for food and I swabbed and jabbed while she was scarfing down moist food.

We're back to moist food, as the web sites dealing with feline diabetes indicate this is the way to go. Far too many carbs in the dry stuff. I'll see. The dry stuff from our vet (available only thru a vet) is for diabetic cats. Right now Thisbe is eating both kinds, and Annie, also porcine, prefers the dry. Annie takes heart medication twice a day. We live in cat sitter hell, that's what.

At the supermarket this morning, the produce truck was LATE. Supposed to be there at 9:00, and not in sight at 11:00. No lemons. No Brussels sprouts. We waited around and waited around and kept accosting the produce people. "They are late because of the holiday."

Grrr. Like the produce people didn't know it was Thanksgiving and might put some extra help on. Finally the truck showed up. I swear to god the Brussels sprouts were unloaded last. We had been hanging out and cooling our heels for a half an hour with entreaties and pleading looks.

Finally, finally the B.S. were brought out and we took four packages, because not only were we doing a side dish for Thanksgiving, but S.O. had it in his head they would be good with the stuffed pork tenderloin tomorrow.

The store didn't charge us for them. Have you ever heard of such a thing? I felt kinda bad, as they were not exactly cheap, and while we seem to be in a financial free fall, we can still buy groceries. They insisted there was no charge. Argued a bit but they were adamant. So thank you for the Brussels Sprouts. We'll enjoy them in good health and and are indeed thankful for your generosity and making us feel the time hanging around and looking at the produce was not time wasted.

Mostly I am thankful that we don't have to eat American Chop Suey one more night. Some wag defined eternity as a ham and two people. I have to say a pound of pasta starts to seem that way by the third night. My oldest kid could, at one time, eat a pound at a sitting. And he stayed skinny. Oh for a metabolism like that in my current years. Yowza! I could eat all the stuff I stay away from. Or try to stay away from.

Yesterday I made oatmeal raisin cookies, a kind of generic cookie from childhood. The recipe made a big batch and there are two bags in the freezer, which is always like manna from heaven. Got the recipe off the Internet. I am getting a good feel for recipes from strange sources. You can look at the seasoning and the fat and get a pretty fair idea if it will be fit to eat.

All recipes calling for margarine are ignored. If all ingredients are "non-fat," that recipe is also disregarded. Low-fat may be all right. We don't object to low, just non. You can always substititute. Healthy salads and veggies are cool. I don't make a lot of desserts, except we like a cookie daily. Seems like one should be able to eat one. Or two. Fresh fruit desserts--yum! Hard to beat fresh fruit. I'm especially fond of Cafloutis.

So I jumped from cat food to people food. Our cats won't eat people food. Won't touch. Won't sniff. It's wonderful. I've had cats that would snake a piece of chicken from a plate with their paws. Cats who ate a half a roast beef. Cats would enjoyed pizza and broccoli and green beans. Cats who want to lick the cereal bowl. Thisbe and Annie are not like those cats.

I am reading a Carl Hiassen book and he showed me how to do a great short flashback. I love his books, which are over the top but in a good, fun way. Great characters, especially the weird bad guys. This book is about bass fishing. I had a bass fishing scene in Promiscuous Mode, but the characters didn't catch any bass. Now I know that bass boats can go fast. You always learn something.

Do you think there are any mysteries where the diabetic cat and the cat with heart trouble solve the crime? I thought not.

Onward,


Grapeshot

Just A Spoonful of Sugar or Maybe Moist Food

Last Thursday morning, we jammed Thisbe into the cat carrier for a vet appointment. She has been eating and drinking like crazy, and we thought that maybe her diabetes was back. It is.

This means I have the honor and privilege of giving her a shot of insulin every day. Just one.

So, the fun began. First of all, a huge (to me) vet bill for the exam and the test. Then I picked up the prescription which could be filled anywhere. We headed to Walmart, hoping that was cheapest.

Oh God, then the fun really began. First of all, the pharmacy was closed for lunch from 1:30 - 2:00. So we cooled our heels buying potting soil and looking for cat grass, which nobody but the pet stores carries anymore.

The pharmacy opened and the pharmacist was very nice, and he didn't say anything when I blanched at the $100.00 price, and the thing is, the medicine is only good for one month and Thisbe only gets one millileter. I got needles and meds and we came home after an expensive detour to Kohl's where everything was so cheap you just had to buy stuff.

Back home, I did a trial run on the needle and the medication, and all was not well. I couldn't seem to make the plunger take the smallest amount. In the meantime, Thisbe got the wind up(who knows how) and disappeared under the bed.

I decided to call it a day.

Yesterday, I practiced with another needle and water, and became quite adept at getting the itsty-bitsy amount of insulin into the needle. Thisbe disappeared under the bed about the time I was thinking about the first shot. She came out to eat, took one look at me, and disappeared under the bed again, into the basement, anywhere, anywhere but in the vicinity of her mistress.

In the meantime, I had somehow expelled the insulin from the syringe.

Today we decided to take a day off, but Thisbe was not fooled and disappeared under the bed after breakfast. When I went up to get dressed, she usually comes out and we have some Mommy/Kitty time. Not this morning.

The damn cat really does have ESP. We're going to play it cool until tomorrow. Maybe she'll calm down.

The fact that the insulin has to be kept in the fridge and the needles sterile and the cat swabbed with alcohol first add to the complexity, as this point the impossibility. Maybe the smell of alcohol triggered a bad memory. Or a new memory from the vet. Maybe she remembers her former experience, when I used to distract her with catnip or get her while she was eating.

She has the wind up. Don't know what to do. And we have $300+ worth of meds, tests, exams and needles going for naught.

Some days you just want to drown your troubles with a cup of hot cocoa. Or something.,

Grapeshot

Thisbe Remembers That She is A Cat and Other Tales

Thisbe loves to see the sparrows on the feeder take off when she steps onto the front porch. The doves fly away with outrage and noisy wings, and the chipmunks and squirrels dive for cover. Such power. Such respect.

If some small creature comes back, Thisbe is ready to pounce, so long as the neighborhood is free of people, other animals and cars, along with any unrecognizable noise. Discretion is always the better part of valor in Thisbe's feline life.

She endured an entire week without catnip while I was gone, and yorked up a hairball in retribution. I like to think. In the meantime, we've had lots of Mommy/Kitty time.


Yesterday, on the march thru Salem neighborhoods for Obama, I saw some weird sights. Curtains so shabby they hung in shreds. People sitting at the kitchen table and refusing to answer the doorbell. A woman who would never vote for a Democrat again because of "how they treated Hilary." A haunted house, (almost).

For sure a lot of houses had no doorbells, and it was obvious to the casual observer that no one ever used the front door. Lots of cars in the driveway but no one home.

Is it true that if someone gives two excuses, that person is lying? Such as "I'm eating lunch and I have company." Dunno. Human nature is infinitely various.

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