My editor seems to have issues.

He has spent a considerable amount of time this weekend sitting by the front door, not five feet from my desk, where he faces a wall and meows his little fool head off. Every time I stop and ask what the problem is he turns his head to look at me, and the look on his face suggests that I have interrupted something very important.

He's either having a two way conversation with the wall, and I am not fortunate enough to be included on one side of it, he's confused and means to be talking to the front door, trying to convince it to open up and let him out, or he hears mice in the walls.

I'm not sure they have kitty anti-psychotics, he knows he's not allowed outside, and if it's the latter, I may be glad we're going to move soon.

Buddah has been so insistent in his conversations with the wall that my harshest critic finally wandered over to him, hissed, and then popped him upside the head with a mighty swipe of his paw.

It worked for about ten minutes.

He's back talking in a stream of kitty chatter, and I am getting nothing worthwhile accomplished.

That's not a complaint.

I think I'll go bake a cake.

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