I have so many things to say

until I sit down here, and all the things I'd muttered, ranted or experienced tend to vanish.

The scarves are off to the Red Scarf Project. Considering I only heard about it a couple of weeks go, I'm pleased with two, and the mistake rib pattern is College Student Road Tested and Approved. My daughter loves hers, and her friend has requested one as well. It's plain, it's stretchy, it's J. Crew-like. I hope the recipients wear them in good health.

We had another Ghost Cat experience, this time it was the Girl who had it. The night before last she took a long nap and ended up awake at 2 a.m. watching TV in the living room. She had the lights off so she wouldn't disturb me (my bedroom is right off the LR) and was stretched out on the couch. Higgins was with her. Dudley was sleeping with me, and Murphy was in his bed.

She heard two geographically incompatible sounds simultaneously. One was the sound of a cat crunching food in the kitchen (Boris on a midnight snack). The other was the distinctly familiar sound her cat loved to make, when she'd stand behind the loveseat and work her paws against it. As with my weird little incident, Girl was wide awake and cold sober, and did what I did - Murphy is here and Dudley is there and Higgins is right in front of me and I can hear a cat eating in the kitchen, so who the hell is beating on the loveseat? All of the animals were accounted for. There was an extra sound that was recognizable and went on too long to be imagination. She didn't get up and look, she didn't expect to see anything.

When it happened to me, it happened to Murphy too, he sat up and barked at the cat flap noise. But he didn't go look either.

Then there was the time that Boris was eating dinner and paused to stare at Natasha's favorite spot (I almost said "haunt" - hee!) atop the cabinet over the fridge. Boris stopped eating and stared, and Girl saw it and got freaked out. You'd have to know Boris, but the words "Boris stopped eating," are akin to, "Suddenly, the sun went black!" Boris does not stop eating. For anything.

The night Girl heard the noise, Boris walked through the house trilling to himself.

Natasha's ashes are still on the shelf in my closet. I'm afraid to follow through on my threat to bury her next to our golden retriever Bailey's ashes. What is the smell of a Ghost Cat crapping revenge in your favorite shoes?