Chaucer was dead.  I had watched from my home’s back window as Roberta and mike put him in his grave and laid a bit of earth on him.  If I knew then what I know now, I’d have howled for an exorcism before the burial. And I wouldn’t have settled for a cut-rate exorcism by a cheap diocesan priest.  I had watched The Exorcist.  Its clear lesson? Don’t send a boy on a man’s errand.  I needed nothing less than a manly Dominican, an order that seemed expert in exorcisms.  I should have got a real OP guy lined up.  Like most sensible people, I wanted no smart boys (aka Jesuits) involved. Dominicans know better than to trust them.  But I was so addled by my joy that I didn’t think of elementary precautions.  Chaucer had threatened me with a haunting.  His threats were never idle.  Alas, as so often in the life, I had to say, ‘Should’ve, could’ve, didn’t.”  That’s life, a tissue of errors.

Once Roberta and mike came back into my house, I had to feign sadness.  Inside, I felt glee.  In my secret heart, I was singing “Ding, Dong the Witch is Dead.”

Perhaps you’ll think Warlock was the proper term, but I was mocking him in my own mind.  I was not the only cat the Castratrices had cut.  I knew to keep my feelings in my secret heart.  In the mood mike was in, he was a clear and present danger to me if I didn’t fall in with his view of Chaucer’s death as a tragedy.  The other cats chez moi—have I mentioned them all?—shared my view.  They need an introduction.