The Martinez flood of Ought Seven

My small backup cat, Darby, likes to drink from any available water spigot, such as the one in the bathtub, this morning. Obliging her in this, as in all things, I started a trickle and Darby stuck her face into the faucet and drank her fill. Once finished, she leapt back out of the tub, sat down, looked directly into my eyes, opened her yap, and barfed all the water back out onto the tiled floor.

Later, noting the progression of the animals, two by two, into the kitchen, I feared that I was about to become that Haliburton of biblical times, Noah, to God's inept, doing a hell of a job, Brownie, government. Sure 'nuf, the sink was leaking from around the base of the faucet and also down into the cabinet beneath. I stuck a bucket down there and turned off the water, pending contact with my landlady.

This evening, when I saw the large economy size of 10,000 rolls of paper towels on sale at Target (I don't patronize the decrepit local Wally World anymore. I just couldn't take the stupid rays that emanate from it, any longer), I seized a metric ton and dragged them to the checkout aisle, along with a package of Fruit of the Loom t-shirts, preferring to defer laundry until the weekend, not wishing to tempt that old battleaxe, Fate.

The 'Flooded' warning sign was still sitting out by the dip in the road, over yonder, forgotten since the last rainfall. Full of dire omens, I raced for the apartment only to find everything high and dry. Until Darby welcomed me home by opening her yap and barfing up her supper.
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