I’m not really the first at anything when it comes to cats.
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I’m not the first person to fall for a cat. I’m not even the first person to say “I was never a cat person,” who then becomes a cat person. I’m not really the first at anything when it comes to cats. Especially not with the cat I have now. Her name is Lazarus, and the first person she bit was not me; it was Amanda, who then required a shot. The first person she scratched? Nope, again, it was Amanda. And lucky for Lazarus, Amanda isn’t one to hold a grudge, as the option the vet gave us that long-ago day...
I drank it as if it were holier than Coke.
Hold on, now. Don't think I'm crazy, entirely, but I have on three separate occasions dreamed things that have then occurred. In actual life. The first involved a childhood pet, Scruff, who had gone to live with my grandparents at Fish Camp, a family compound surrounded my cabins, ponds, a basic swimming pool, and a torturously long vegetable garden, where we gathered each summer for a fish fry and the annual task of grading blueberries and other such fruit; several on my father's side were in the fruit farm industry; after an afternoon of grading blueberries, there is no child on...
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