Tuesday, September 10, 2013


That's the name of my cat.  I named her that because when she was a wee little thing, little enough to stuff in my pocket (which I could have done but did not, so don't you call PETA on me), she had the face of a bat.  Now that she's all grown up, she does not look a bat anymore but is nearly as acrobatic as one.  So, the name still fits.  Sort of.  Of course, she can't really fly, but the way she is able to get on the roof of my house and back down again with such easy celerity can produce moments of doubt.

But if bats are fearless (and I wouldn't know if they are or not because I've never been around bats long enough to measure their fear or lack thereof.  And I don't know how one would go around doing that.  Have a staring contest between a bat and Robert de Niro and see who flinches first?  No idea.  But, all I am saying is IF bats are fearless), then my cat is nothing like a bat.  Today I waved a sock at her, and she ran away in mortal terror.  Perhaps, it was her way of telling me to do my laundry more often.  Perhaps.  But she doesn't seem to mind ripping apart the corpses of mice.  Well, yes, but she does that before the stink sets in.  Fine.  Fledermaus is not timid.  I just need to do my laundry more often.  Women!  Always nagging!

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