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Moaning Myrtle


Our new foundling cat, the silver tabby, is now living on our front screened-in porch. There she is safe from the black vultures who were stalking her in our yard last week and had her cowering under a bush, miaowing piteously.

We’ve decided to call her “Freya,” one of the Norse goddesses. (Martians favor the warlike Viking mythology, for obvious reasons.) Freya seems relatively happy in her new home, but she’s a bit skittish. She’ll be snoozing happily away under a table, but if she hears our voices, she’ll start yowling in a voice that carries all the way across the street. “Notice me,” she says. It’s not that she’s hungry or thirsty, she just wants attention.

Her moaning is so continuous that I think I’ll start calling her Moaning Myrtle instead.

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