One valid excuse for not writing is having a cat on your lap, or serial cats on your lap. Pilgrim was here moments ago and I broke his heart when I gently placed him on the floor. He is out of sorts tonight anyway because he was sleeping in the laundry room on one of the dog beds until I put the dogs there for the night, bumping him. As soon as Pilgrim left me with the laptop, Feather arrived. She's all white, has always been very delicate. She's so beautiful. Feather is 11 years old now, and spoiled, frail, mystical. Since she grew up on my lap at the old computer while I worked on a writing-intensive adult BA degree completion program in 1998 she sleeps soundly on my lap as I stretch across her in an attempt to use the keyboard. I have one of those ergonomic split keyboards (it's great) and Feather uses the wrist support area for a pillow.
I had intended to write some about the two women named Lydia in my family trees, one on the maternal side, the other paternal. That's how I got my middle name. But after accommodating Feather (who just this moment huffed and jumped off of my lap) the thought track is off and I am just going to go to bed and read the latest issue of The Sun.
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