It’s that time again, for “a tradition unlike any other.” The Masters. I love this tournament and enjoy watching any of it I can each year. The course is amazing, the players are the best in the world, and the storylines are always interesting. Like yesterday, when Sergio Garcia put five balls in the water on number 15, and shot a 13 on the hole, a record low (high?) at this tournament. Doesn’t look like last year’s champion has much chance for repeating. We are one day in and so far my favorite player, Jordan Spieth, is leading the field. But anything can happen over these next 54 holes.

The book that Cindy and I are currently reading aloud together is this one: “A Man Called Ove.” Let the reader beware, the book is not a Christian novel, and contains some bad language. But it will capture your imagination, and warm your heart. It’s the story of an old curmudgeon who yells at kids (and adults) to get off his lawn, who lives by the very strictest of daily routines, and who wants his life to be over (for a reason I will not divulge, so it surprises you as it did me). I have laughed out loud so hard that I had to put down the book for a minute to catch my breath. I have also cried.  I look forward to each chapter, each revelation about this man’s life, each story of how he is changed by the very people he first finds so annoying. By the way, I just learned today that I have been pronouncing his name incorrectly the whole time. It’s pronounced “OO-VAH.”

I said goodbye to a faithful friend this week. I laughed as I wrote that sentence, because I am NOT a cat person. And “indoor cat” is an oxymoron, in my opinion: that is not happening at the Fox den. But our 17-year-old outdoor cat, Honey, gave up the ghost this past Monday. For about 15 of her 17 years, Honey was everything  a cat should be for someone who lives in the country. She kept the mice and other varmints out of the house. In exchange, I fed her and gave her water every day. I would also rub her head when she begged for it while I was sitting on a rocker on the front porch. She was low maintenance. The past two years, we have had to resort to mousetraps a few times, as Honey was apparently retired and never told us she had hung it up. She also didn’t like going out of the garage in the winter time, so she made deposits for me to clean up under our screened-porch. She was always terrified of the blower, and would run out as soon as I started sweeping the garage, even before I picked up the blower to finish the job. That’s how I knew her days were numbered. About a month ago, I started sweeping in the garage and she didn’t move. She stayed in the plastic basket on her blanket, her ‘warm space.’ I said, “Hey, Honey, I’m sweeping.” Then, “Hey, Honey, I’m turning on the blower!” She paid me a great no mind, as the old folks used to say. She was too tired, or sick, I guess, to be afraid. Funny, I have found myself missing Honey this week. As I pull the car into the garage, I am surprised she is not there, waiting for me. I don’t see her sitting on my car five minutes after I arrive home, anymore, trying to get warm. She doesn’t meet me at the door every morning with a loud “meow,” which always meant, “Feed me, human.” She was a good cat. And Cindy is already talking about the kitten we will get to replace her. And no, this is not an invitation for you to drop your kitten(s) off at out house.  🙂  Winston Churchill loved cats, and always had at least one. He said, “Always remember, a cat looks down on man, a dog looks up to man, but a pig will look man right in the eye and see his equal.”