Moby seems comfortable here, finding favored perches and corners, chasing, flopping. Seems to like having the window right down to his level. I dropped a book a few inches from him the other day, and he looked, idly, without a flinch. He can be such a nerveless cat, which I assume means he trusts us generally. Of course, at other times, a mere look will send him off on a tear.
D is playing guitar this morning. Moby on the stool at my feet, his ears swiveling attentively, his tail draped over my ankle.
We ate at the Living Traditions Festival, Navajo Tacos. Difficult, but so worth it. Even the beany aftereffects. Got to roll a bocci ball, badly. Didn't stay long, as there was a woman with three daughters on the other 'team.' In this town, that is a phalanx not to be around. Kids rule, mere adult couples wisely withdraw. It's all a bit rinky-dink, but in a good way.