Dad usually buys an assortment of cookies when they go shopping. Mom shakes her head, but doesn’t say much about them. She explained to me that Dad shouldn’t be eating them. She knows they taste good, and that they are a small part for the quality of his life. It is the same thing with the Diet Coke he drinks. She said it is a lot like that old joke that one man told another that if he gave up the evil things in his life, he could live an extra 5 years. The man replied, “Why would I want to?” Dad’s like that and in some ways I may be too.

One type of cookie that Mom likes is a oatmeal cookie. She says it is almost healthy. I can tell she doesn’t believe that, but then she only ever has two of them. I’ve discovered that I also like those cookies. Our new routine is that she breaks the cookie in half. She takes a small bite of one half and breaks off a small bite of the other half for me. I eat mine faster than she can keep up! I eat my half and a part of hers as well. Yum.

The other day she had one that was dipped in chocolate. I wouldn’t leave her alone until she let me have a taste. I really liked it and she let me have another taste before she went to her computer. She researched to find that chocolate was toxic for me as well as for Missy the dog. I’m really disappointed because that cookie was even better than the oatmeal ones. Some days I really hate that computer and its instant answers.

One of Mom’s author friends commented that Mom needed to write a book about a talking cat. I know she was referring to me and my blog posts here. I need to clarify the facts. I don’t actually talk like people do. No one else could actually hear me talk the way I do with Mom. Dad only passes that bar occasionally, but that is more due to his strokes than my abilities to talk to him. The truth is Mom thinks that I talk, but really it is just a unique form of communication. Many cats purr or meow. I rarely do either of those things. I am one of the more refined cats who communicate by placing my placing my thoughts directly into my Mom’s brain. She is sensitive to me, and can receive my signals without too much effort. She often uses her voice to talk with me (usually when she uses the word “No”), but our best communication is non verbal. I say that I am whispering in her ear, but I just like to rub against her ear when I am sending her my thought. Thus, I can make my blog posts because Mom does such a good job of listening to me.

Today she has been excited to tell me about the new page and links she has added to her website. People who are new to my story can go directly to my 1st post and read from there without a lot of work. If you want to share my story with friends, here is that direct link: Murphy Jones – Oldest to Newest Posts I hope you have as much fun reading these, as I do writing them!

Mom did it again; she forgot all about my blog post because she was wrapped up in writing another chapter for her new book. I tried to remind her. More than once I sat on her desk in front of her keyboard. I knew just what I wanted to say, but she didn’t take the time to write it down. Today she said she was sorry when she got home after running some errands. I know that she was to meet a lady who would let her into one of local churches. Mom had told me that she needed to set a location for the Quilt Hop that takes place at the end of July. She had written about that event in her book #4. She had never met this lady before, but the woman knew who she was. Mom likes to tell me that is not uncommon in this small town. As she says, it is because her hair is white and here they think she talks funny. Her friend, Brian says it is because she is a Yankee. I don’t know about that. I like the way she talks.

Mom told me that as she chatted with this lady, the lady said she was a cousin of a man who Mom worked with in Washington State. It was his stories about his grandmother who lived here that helped Mom and Dad decide to move to Texas. Mom said she knew this man retired to Texas. She has decided it was past time to check in with him. That probably means she will still not remember to help me write my Sunday blog post. All of this because the world really is very small.