Too Damn Hot.

I'm in a constant state of sweat right now. I'm convinced that, at the rate I must be losing fluids, my flesh must have the texture of freeze-dried beef. And it's even cooler than it has been for the past few days in Montreal. Too hot to knit, particularly anything mohair. Too hot to move. By Friday, my room mate and I were in a state of advanced crankiness. The RC cable for the DVD player still hadn't turned up, our house felt like a steam bath, and the fridge had reached that state of condiment-heavy emptiness, where it's either starvation or a mustard and PC Memories of Canton sauce saltine sandwich. So, we went for milkshakes at the mall, but that wasn't enough to lift our spirits. We had to pull out the big guns: the pet shop.

There were adorable puppies, and sweet little ginger kittens sleeping like little packages. And then there were the fluffy kittens. Five of the six were staring at the cooing customers all googly-eyed, looking like they had spawned from a Charmin commercial. The last one was conked out in front of the litterbox, and covered in poo. Poor choice of real estate, that. He promptly became our favourite. My roommate thought my suggestion of "HRH Krap Kitty" as a name would be damaging to his self-esteem, but she's also the one who refused to buy the "Jumbo" kitty litter box because she thought it would give Oliver body image issues. Silly Katie, cats can't understand English! Old Egyptian, maybe, but not English. We settled on Buster as a suitable name. Oh, Buster. Come live with us, and I promise fountains of shampoo, and to never, ever crap on you.