Bad Sandwich

My friend Gail is always wanting the white cats to sleep on either side of Chicken little so she can call them a chicken sandwich. They never do it. I was beginning to suspect they all ate magnets and now the yellow cats can't be in the middle. This is as good as it may ever get. Looks like a sandwich made by a five-year-old with their dominant hand tied behind their back.

This is the place to be lately, though. The Ratties are piled up on this pillow a lot lately, too. I guess with the cool mornings and the afternoon sun, I'd like to sleep there, too. Actually, I just might. It's been days since I've had a nap in and damnit it's Saturday. No time, though. My company was delayed by house-selling and -buying bull malarkey, but now I have news that it's crunch time to de-clutter to make room for visitors and their (even larger than mine) zoo by next weekend. I really hate cleaning. Have I ever mentioned that? But my once-a-week going-over things isn't going to cut it for things to come.

It's time for Gail to face the facts, though. Cats do not have sandwich-making skills.