The Scream of the Butterfly

Do you know those internet photos of terrified cats hanging from the ceiling?

I was upstairs yesterday watching Pardon The Interruption on the telly, if that's not too precious.

Dude, you sound like Madonna.  Or Gwyneth Paltrow.  Each with her fake English accent.
I do?
Telly?  Really?  It's a television.

Ok.  So I was upstairs watching television.  The house I live in is actually two houses, duplexes might be a better word, sharing a common wall.  Or duplices.  In the back there are length-of-the-house verandas on both floors (the top one may be a balcony, not a veranda), and it's perfectly okay for each neighbor to wander over and knock on the other's back door, provided you do so on the ground floor.  We stay to ourselves upstairs because, hey, a person could be naked, brushing one's teeth, or whatever.  And you wouldn't want your neighbor choosing that particular moment to knock on the door and ask for some mouthwash.

It all works fine.  You should see our garden.  Lovely.

So I'm upstairs watching TV, engrossed, because when I do something I give it my all, with the back door open because it's warm and I like the cross ventilation.  And, without invitation, one of my favorite dogs in the world -- Rosie, a 15-year-old dachshund -- wanders out my neighbors' door and in mine.  Quietly, like an assassin.  I don't notice anything until she licks the side of my leg.

Moments later, hanging from the ceiling like terrified cat, I remember thinking that if I can actually do this it might be time to trim my toenails.

If that's not too much.

Here's the Range Rover commercial ...