Whimsy Speaks Again

I was a little busy yesterday.  First, there was a new rush of client requests.  Meanwhile, Derek needed help organizing the jobs he's doing for me while on spring break (mostly consisting of fence painting, with little likelihood of offloading the task to Sawyer-esque victims).  Then, Der announced that two relatively well-dressed people were at the door.  I immediately thought "Jehovah's Witnesses", but was surprised to find that it was an IRS team.  Three hours of financial anal-probing later, they announced that they were convinced that the perceived problem was a misunderstanding.  I spent most of the rest of the day pulling together the various letters from the IRS over the past 18 months (and I'm always getting them), and writing a summary letter to get Express Mail'ed out this morning to conclude this little shocker (I've never been audited, never even been to an IRS office).  Der finished his work and decided he wanted to walk around the neighborhood posting notices about Emily and Rimbaud, which included their vital statistics, and my phone number and address. I went to bed early with a good book and a clear conscience.

I woke up this morning about 4:30 oddly ready to get up, do my treadmill routine, and finish the IRS letters.  I opened the bedroom door, and there was Miss Emily at the bottom of the stairs, just as if she hadn't been gone for almost two weeks.  She is rail-thin and very needy, but seems to be in great shape otherwise (we going to the vet tomorrow to check).  As she is un-neutered, there's some chance she is in the family way, but I'll see what the vet has to say.   Today, she ate three times her normal amount of cat food, slept in my lap a lot and rubbed up against Dima for some of the afternoon.  Dima's theory is that she read Der's notices and finally figured out how to get home.  I can only imagine where she's been for the past two weeks (stalking birds, drinking from local creeks, sleeping under bridges), but she's clearly happy to be back.  God knows what happened to Rimbaud, who is 8 pounds heavier, a lot stronger, and able to take care of himself.  With luck we'll either find him, or he's grown accustomed to the attention of another family somewhere.

And you wonder why I call this WhimsyLand.