title

Butterscotch came upon us one moon-lit and otherwise inconsequential night. There he was, this scampering-pattering puff of brown and white, meowingly clawing at our door. He came and we gave him some milk...and came a second night and we gave him some milk and fish...and must have been so satisfied with his previous visits that the third night he came to stay. Buttescotch wasn't shy and wouldn't remain a stranger long, quickly leaping up onto my piano stool, then onto and off the piano and onto bookshelf. Here he made himself at home in a space between my volumes of Dickens, below the shelf that contained my volumes of Greek Dramas, and right above my hidden compartment which contained my stash of Playboy magazines. There, like Poe's Raven