dear Mrs. Calabash . . .

if you've ever been owned by a teenage cat, you know they have a tendency at certain inexplicable times, to run around the house at full throttle.  Low to the grown, top speed, wending around corners almost on their sides, pitching over furniture, darting through chair legs, flying over beds, in and out of doors, never letting up on the gas peddle.  They finally calm down, panting from the exertion and once again become calm and quiet, sedate and regal.

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Tonight, after reading a few pages of an Elizabeth George mystery novel; surfeited with good food and drink, I fell asleep early . . .  drifting off to the cool fall breezes, adjoined by the ceiling fan, into the land of nod.  That is, until dear Pippin decided to take the opportunity to rid herself of her extra energy and run, as detailed above, through the house.  The sound wakened me and I lay for a moment half awake, half asleep listening to baby monster cat tear through the loft.  Suddenly, however, I am sitting bolt upright fearful that the fan, now roaring closer in sound to its distant relative, a 747, has become unhinged and has taken flight of its own above my head. Out of bed, in the dark, I cannot ascertain the source of the racket. . .  it quickly having been determined that the fan was still connected as it should. Startled and still not functioning on all four cylinders, I headed toward the source of the din.  It seems, that the not so dear Pippin, had run up and over the lounge chair and across the paper shredder with such force that she inadvertently, slid the machine into the 'on' position.

I am now wide awake and she has still not appeared from wherever she has hidden when she scared the living daylights out of the two of us.

Goodnight Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.