Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Spring – Guest Blog by Emma and Her Ghost Writer 

    After munching the chow I reminded Janet to give me before she went swimming, I stroll down the hall to find a cozy spot. One bedroom is empty except for a fan, work light, and scattered tools. The other is a mess of piled furniture. I head for the green bathmat. But spraying water and the squeaking-rub of feet in the shower mean the mat will be damp. I'll go upstairs.

    Bong, bang.

    What is George thinking . . .

    Bong. BAM

    . . . racing down two flights of metal stairs . . .

    Bong, boom, bong.

    . . . like he's chasing a herd of voles?

    The shower curtain flies open. Spence leaps out, slips on the brown tile, and grabs the sink.

    He could have turned off the water. My mat will be wet all day. I move against the wall.

    With an anxious “Geooorrrge,” Spence dashes down the spiral stairs.

    Moving to the edge, I peer down the stairwell.

    He slips and grabs the railing. His naked butt bangs onto the bottom step.

    “George! Oh . . . why you staring at me from the cold cellar doorway?”

    George is probably thinking Spence looks strange without his glasses and his clothes.

    Bare feet slap across the cement floor. George will get a wet pet. Yuck.

    Spence calls. “Emma. Emma!”

    As if. I hide under the sofa.

    Spence pads back upstairs. “Emma.” He walks into one room after another. “Are you alright, Baby?” Still dripping, he climbs to the second floor. He should be ready for a nap.

    Coming back down to the great room in a panic, he yells, “EMMA.”

    Best to let him know I'm okay so he'll calm down and turn off the water. The mat will be soggy for days. I utter a soft “merrow” to satisfy him.

    That doesn't work.

    He bends over, pulls me out from under the sofa, and hugs me to his wet, soapy chest. Whatever.

    “I was so worried about you, Emmie.” He nuzzles his wet nose against my cheek.

    Sheesh.

    “I heard that horrible crash and thought George or you must be dead.”

    If we were dead, he could have turned off the shower and dried himself before looking for our corpses.

    He squeezes me, sets me on the sofa, and walks back to the bathroom. 

   The shower curtain swishes then the house is silent except for spraying water and the squeaking-rub of feet.

    I lick my fur and settle on the sofa in Spence's spot.