I saw Ruthie, and she had not made pickles. Maybe the cucumbers had not cooperated. Maybe she was working on other things. Maybe she just lost interest in supplying every relative in her large family with pickles. A person does not need a reason not to make pickles, and yet I felt Aunt Ruthie owed me an explanation.

I didn’t even know how long red squirrels lived. Three years, I later learned, is average, although some have lived up to 10 years in captivity. But even with a steady supply of seeds, I don’t think Stubby was living under optimum conditions. Somebody had already gotten the end of his tail, after all.

Felix enjoyed his room at the Sheraton very much. In addition to the French fries, there were a lot of places to explore, and he discovered he could hide under the dust ruffle of the bed and attack our feet. When we went to bed, he climbed up between us. “What a good cat!” I said.

Estefan is an older gentleman with a broad smile, and he was sitting at a sewing machine improbably parked in a tiny spot behind the beverage cooler. Estefan said he would be delighted to sew a sofa cover for us. He came to look at the sofa. He borrowed a tape measure from Peter, and he wrote a lot of numbers down on a pad of paper. Then he left with Peter’s pen in his pocket.

It always starts in the same way. I get a sore throat. First, I ignore it. I have found this is the best way to deal with imminent disasters. When I used to drive old cars, I would turn up the radio when I heard an ominous noise. Loud music and deliberate ignorance can take you for many miles.

There is cheese by the slice and wine and pickles and cookies and toothpicks. The only things they don’t sell at Bonanza are fresh breads, vegetables and meat—because you know you are supposed to go to the proper store to get those.

“There is nothing as nice as a crisp cotton sheet” is what my mother would say.

She hangs her sheets out on the line to this day, and perhaps that’s what got me thinking about perfection. Perfection has to be imperfect enough to notice it, to enjoy it, to make me pay attention.

Living with a cat, you start to eye gravity with suspicion. Small items that appeared to be securely in place must be scrutinized, as if living under the imminent threat of a major earthquake. Living with a cat is like living in a spaceship. Items cannot be expected to remain where they are put. Everything needs to be put inside something else to prevent it from floating away or, more accurately, batted around the house at 3 AM.