Milking it

It's been busier than Rundle Street (or Regent Street, or George St, or Collins Street, or Times Square, or where ever you happen to live) here today.

In again and out again, and out again and in again.

I just lie here patiently waiting for some kind soul to pass by and give me a pat or, maybe if I'm lucky, a tickle under the chin.  Sigh.

That's the story of my life.  Sigh.

In other news, SHE's given up on putting a plastic bag over my foot when I go outside for a you-know-what.  I can't keep my balance, and it's very hard to squat.

Not what you'd call "stop press" is it?