Orange Street Loop

I jogged and walked the Orange Street Loop tonight in 36:44, with splits of 12:20, 12:14, and 12:10, after I watched Scrooged with my mother. This afternoon, Mom and I walked the one-mile Emerson Drive Loop in 19:13. I think that's a pretty good mile for a 78-eight-year-old woman. At about nine a.m., just before I reached the one-mile mark of the 38th Street Loop, I noticed a Siamese cat walking toward me on Emerson, about a half-mile from my house. I'm pretty sure I'd seen that cat before, and expected it to run away. But it was meowing as I approached. I stooped to pet it and, fuck, it looked awful. The first thing I noticed were its puffy eyes, and then scabs of dried saliva and mucous around its mouth, and then its bones. It looked like an escapee from a concentration camp for cats. I picked it up, the cat felt like a furry bag of sticks, and carried it home. It weighed three pounds on my bathroom scales. I put it in the now pristine laundry room, made sure Jo—who went ape—stayed in the house, and filled cereal bowls with cat food and water. It ate for about half an hour and then wandered off, maybe to die. Writing this now, I realize I should've taken it to my vet. Shit. I guess I thought I could save it. I hope to see it tomorrow.

SENTENCE OF THE DAY from A Different Closet
It took Bill Seale about six months of marriage to Elsie to convince her he didn’t want anything fancy for breakfast—no quiche, no soufflés, no crepes, just bacon and eggs, hash browns, and buttered toast; a little fruit was permissible, waffles or pancakes occasionally, sausage was fine, biscuits, and grits, but that was it; outside of cream gravy and Log Cabin syrup, save the sauces for company; he, of course, wanted his coffee black, and his eggs over-easy, so he could dunk toast in the yolk, which he did as he finished Kelleher’s sidebar on Lardner’s resignation.