We woke up Monday morning and found Stella on the floor next to the bed. Asleep. Not in her perch, not on the window sill, not on the bed. On the floor. Dogs sleep on the floor. Stella sleeps as high as possible. I think there must me a low, invisible cloud of Feliway floating a foot above the floor. Calming her. Lulling her.

The morning greeting, petting, feeding ritual takes another 10-15 minutes longer these days. Sam will have none of it. My job. No if's, and's or but's. My idea, my responsibility. Sam enjoys the cats as a Victorian father enjoys the progeny: in his time and in his way. The sacrifice he makes is to not go out to the backyard to smoke through the den. Smoking only out front. This is a sacrifice.

We're thinking of naming her Maggie. Maggie the Cat. Yeah, we sort of have a Tennessee Williams thing going on, but it didn't start that way, no matter how many people yell Stella at me. And Maggie, nee Tabitha, is Elizabeth Taylor. And she's Maggie the Cat; she longs for attention and affection from a gay man or two. The difference is she gets it.

Did the sock trade again. Maggie was very casual. Stella less so.