It was 108 degrees yesterday, which is 42.2 if your keyboard lacks a Z and has an extra U. It's been over 90 here since, seemingly, Adam started wearing a loincloth and the house is now hot enough to bake bread without using the oven. It was 93 degrees inside the house until around 11:30 last night when mercifully, it dropped to 91 and I could go to sleep.
Needless to say, the cat no longer wants to live. Either that, or the cat absolutely loves this. She says she loves the heat, being a ferocious desert panther, but her heart doesn't seem quite in it when I see her sprawled on her side, only her eyeball moving, looking less panther and more flounder.
I stood over her in her room today. Yes, she has her own room, though she shares it with the washer and dryer, the latter recognized not as my appliance but as her high-tech Magic Fingers for KittyTM. Pity wells in my heart.
"You're hot," I say.
"You're perceptive," she says.
"You don't have to do this. It's cooler downstairs. You should try it."
"I'd rather stay here as my ancestors would."
I'm not a big fan of feline pride, so I pick her up and take her downstairs and put her on the tiled floor of the kids' bathroom. It is cool underfoot. It's the only way I know to communicate the idea.
"Lie down. Try it."
She rubs herself back and forth against my legs then regally and slowly walks her way back upstairs to her room. Flops down on her side. Eyeball rolling.
As I head back downstairs, I hear a small voice. "Indeed."
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