Isabel stages an intervention
After a thoroughly relaxing reprieve in rural Virginia spent visiting friends and vineyard-hopping, rested, quenched and content, I trekked back to Boston with a trunk full of wine.
I unpacked each vintage, casting aside corrugated cardboard and canvas bags, carefully placing the bottles one by one in a formation on the kitchen table.
My cat Isabel, apparently fearing I’d become a raging drunk while on holiday, lay herself down and played dead in front of my liquid souvenirs from the South, as if to stage an intervention by acting out the horrors of alcoholism. Meanwhile, her sister Teva was unnervingly apathetic about my liver’s possible weakened condition.
And in truth, Isabel is somewhat of an alarmist. Like the boy who cried wolf. Except she’s not a boy. And she doesn’t cry. And if she did, she most certainly wouldn’t cry wolf, because she’s anti-canine. Nonetheless, she intervenes in much the same manner approximately 18 hours a day.
But I don’t know what the big deal is.
I don’t have a problem.
I mean, I’m not going to drink *all* 20 bottles.
One’s for my catsitter.