This big ol' boy made himself at home on my desk for a couple hours this week before his owner heard he'd been found.
He has six toes on each paw, which is the size of a child's ballglove.
It was no surprise to learn that his name is Boots.
Emil is here for the weekend. He came home with me Friday after work and remarked, as soon as we walked in the door, that the dishes really should get done so the kitchen will look nice.
I have trouble staying "on top of" the dishes, probably because they are lower on my list of priorities than my freedom to enjoy life or at least to nurture myself (with rest, or with doing something I prefer to do) before attending to household chores.
So there are times, like this week, when the dishes pile up on the counter until there is no more space and we run short of clean cutlery and I think with some longing and admiration for the ambition of those women who have the self-discipline to do the damn dishes after every meal whether they are tired or not. Those women were my mother and grandmothers, from whom I did not inherit the "stay on top of the housework" gene.
Yesterday afternoon Emil washed a few dishes before complaining that he was tired of standing at the sink, and I washed a sinkful of silverware and coffee mugs, but the counter this morning remains full of dirty dishes to be dealt with.
Oh well. If piled-up dishes are my biggest hurdle in daily life, I should consider myself fortunate. And actually, I do.
And I don't mean to complain. We have dishes and cutlery so nice (what kind of person says that about dishes and cutlery? i'm scaring myself here) that they're actually a pleasure to handle. (Sandy: different strokes for different folks; and they grew on me over time.)
Where I'm having difficulty is keeping them clean. They're no pleasure to look at when they're dirty.