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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

The answer to the above question is a joke that goes back to my early yoot, possibly picked up from a “Highlights” magazine at a dentist’s office:

He: I’ve got a code.

She: A secret code?

He: No, a code ib my nose!

Yes, I’ve been slightly under the weather, and that always seems to cut off the creative juices. Plus, despite the titanic headlines all around, Ol’ Robbo really doesn’t have much to say for himself at the moment. I’m certainly looking forward to voting next Tuesday, along with Eldest Gel and Mrs. R (the younger Gels already voted absentee), but that’s about it.

One modest semi-triumph: Decanter Kitten has finally decided that I’m not going to eat her after all and has deigned to make friends with me. I call it a “semi-triumph” because in the end I had to break down and court her. This involved not only taking over feeding her, but also lying on Youngest Gel’s bed (the kitteh’s safe-space) and playing with her with one of those feather-toys on a string. I don’t much care to be manipulated like that.

UPDATE: Still under the weather, so reduced to additional cat-blogging.

I’ve heard some of you ask, “Tom, how is Lady Decanter Cat handling the new inmate?”

Whelp, I’ll leave it to Lee Ann Womack to put the appropriate words in her mouth:

She may be an angel who spends all winter
Bringin’ the homeless blankets and dinner
A regular Nobel Peace Prize winner
But I really hate her, I’ll think of a reason later

They don’t call wimminz’ spats “cat-fighting” for nothing, my friends.

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