Cats do listen when we open up to them.

The other day, I was telling Trygg about a trip my wife and I took to Quebec a few years back.

We stayed at a romantic hotel in a centuries old home. Madame, the concierge, had switched us to a larger room in the front, overlooking a park, and the water.

Early in the morning, as my wife made the coffee, I ventured out to la patisserie to buy croissant, and au marche acheter des fruit.

When I returned, we opened the large window and sat on the window sill, drinking coffee, eating croissant and listening as the horse-drawn caleches rolled up the cobblestone street beneath our window. We were not on holiday in another country. We were on holiday in another century.

But you never know about cats. Just when you think it all falls on deaf ears, something happens.

When my wife and I returned home from Church the other night, the lights were out, a candle was lit on the coffee table in the parlour, a fire was burning (In the fireplace), and there was a plate out with a warm baguette, sweet butter and jam, a bottle of good claret, and some pastries. The bread was warm. (I knew Trygg couldn't have baked the bread himself. He hadn't had enough time. I figured he simply warmed it up in the oven.)

As my wife went to powder her nose, I just looked at Trygg and said. "Thank you."

"Not a problem."

I went over and rubbed my head on his. He, in turn, gave me a quick hug.

"I remembered that story you told me about Quebec."

"Oh."

When my wife came back into the room, Trygg smiled and said, "You two have a nice evening. I'll be out late. Very late."

I just smiled.

Then, just before he left, he turned and said, "Oh, by the way. I have a confession to make. I ate the camembert."

I just smiled.

Trygg left. I poured the wine.

Even the cat winks =^.~=

Slim