While I was with my aunt, I had the opportunity to harass Rylie's cousin. "Ginger Balls" or "Ginger" were the preferred names for him. My aunt persisted in pointing out that he had been neutered, but was less than thrilled when I altered the first nickname to "Ginger Ball-less."
In the months since coming home, I've just been lazy. Rylie has finally nipped and kneaded his way into getting an update out of me. In that sense, Rylie is like the Mafia. Jimmy Hoffa is probably buried on the farm Rylie was abducted from. I suspect I'll find a cat-sized fedora hidden under my bed along side a cat-sized tommy gun. He's probably distilling catnip gin under the bathroom counter. Honestly, I would be kind of okay with that, because I'm a sucker for the roaring twenties. My only real concern entails the discovery of my most cherished toy from child hood, my stuffed rabbit, Bugs', severed head being found between my sheets.
