Blame it on the cat

The fact is, it probably is the cat's fault at least half the time. Who else would eat the peace plant and then throw it up on the comforter?

I blame the loss of my magnificent schefflera on our previous cat, Greylin. I do have a good picture of him sitting in it looking out the window. He loved that plant, and arranged its foliage to suit his needs. Unfortunately, the picture was taken with film, and you know how that goes. This cell-cam picture of Sherlock is less than perfect, but serves to document the truth.

What would you do without a scapecat in the house? Why am I sneezing? Who spilled water on the kitchen floor? Who chewed the edge of this magazine? How did my pen get under the hutch? Where are my keys? Lacking a cat, you would have to wonder if you or the spouse did it, and it is better to scapegoat the cat than the spouse. Really.

The chorus of the song is sung to the tune of the old hymn, "Bringing in the sheaves."

Blame it on the cat,
blame it on the cat.
He's a handy scapegoat
and doesn't give a damn.

I apologize for the profanity in the last line, but it's as close as I could get to a rhyme. And you know it's the truth. That utter inability to feel shame, even to pretend to feel shame, is a sure sign that what you have running around the house snagging the drapes is definitely not a dog.