The end of the day.

The end of the work week.

Usher in the weekend.

If only I had the energy…..

Oh yeah! It’s Friday night.

And here I am, quite a fright.

Put on your red shoes

And dance the blues.

Huh?

What?

You are too tired to dance?

You know what?

So am I.

Friday nights are not what they used to be.

As a matter of fact, Friday nights have become a much kinder, gentler entry into the weekend.

Can we hold off the party until tomorrow night?

Wait.

Can we party in the afternoon?

And can I bring my cats?

If not, I will not be able to attend.

The cats and I are stuck in a groove.

We thrive on a routine.

Eat, sleep and go wild.

However, lately, the go wild part is severely limited.

Such is the fate of senile felines.

Oh, yes, we love our weekends.

Shhhhhhhhhhh.

I just saw Half Pint putting on a red dress.

And Puff Daddy dancing the blues.

And the Chicken Butt, raising a glass of wine, in a toast to all the workers of the world.

Such is the fate of those who work beyond the realm of reason, and hang out with hateful cats.

Cheers to all of us!

The old, the wicked, the affirmed and the insane.

Yes, Chicken Butt, this toast is for you.

 

C. B.

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