Today is my friend Harvey Deselms’ birthday. He and his dog, Dot, have a big birthday party every year at their art gallery so all of us artists can mooch food and hopefully sell stuff to the people with money.
This year there was a balloon artist. When I arrived, Dot – who is much cuter as a four-year-old than she was as a bitey jumpy puppy – was harassing the balloon guy. She wanted his marker, his scissors, his HEY IS THAT A BALLOON CAN I HAVE THE BALLOON!?!
Later, I got this.
Kitten Thunder was not impressed.
The weird thing is that, on Saturday at the 17th Street Arts Festival, a little boy gave me a balloon flower. So we went from no local balloonists to two. The lady at the arts festival made this.
That’s Salvador Dali, in case you were thinking Groucho Marx.
And what does any of this have to do with the cats?
Nothing. Here’s this week’s story:
Oliver, as you know, loves breakfast. He loves the word breakfast. Just whispering “breakfast” in his ear while we’re snuggling will make him purr. So it should come as no surprise that he dreams about breakfast.
Yesterday, Oli was napping on the loveseat. His toes curled up. Then his lips started smacking. Smack smack. Then, from all the way across the room, I heard the purr.
The breakfast of his dreams.
Obi was not so lucky. Today, the brown kitten was snuggling with me (don’t tell him I told you that) and he’d settled down on the couch with his head resting on my stomach.
He was settled, but my stomach was not.
My tummy gurgled and growled for an hour. Eventually the sound worked its way into Obi’s dream. At first he was merely snarling whenever my stomach gurbled. Then his ears twitched as his lip curled up. Finally, he’d had enough of whatever dream creature that was full of big talk in his dream.
He growled back.