By Tiber
When I was a kid, I used to carry all sorts of junk around in my pockets. It had no value in the real world but, to me, every piece was a useful treasure.
Tonight, Dad forgot something in his study and when he turned around and went back in, he saw Paracelsus, one of our cats, whirl around, clearly looking guilty.
The cat was carrying a pencil stub in his mouth and he quickly tried to act casual about it, as if he was just planning to jot a few things down. Then he glanced at the old, upholstered chair, dropped the pencil and ran out.
Dad decided to look under the chair, clearly not an action undertaken by anyone on the cleaning staff in years, and there was Paracelsus’ own guy-stash of treasures, his own little boy pants pockets.
We kept pulling things out as if we were in Tut’s tomb.
The cat had carried off and saved two wine corks, a walnut, a straw, a small compass, a gargoyle, a jack of clubs, a Christmas decoration that Mom said disappeared two years ago, a man’s tie, a yo-yo, a set of those Russian dolls (which, unsurprisingly, he couldn‘t restack), an antique sugar spoon, a trilobite fossil and a photograph of Megan Fox.
I’ve got to hand it to him. His horde was a whole lot better than mine.
