Morning Readers,

I just killed my first spider of the day, and, although it was a little unnerving to hear, “There’s a spider on the couch,” while staring into space in the bathroom, the situation has been dealt with and Summer is really looking up.

Except for the rain.

Yes, we’re still trapped inside, staring at each other, watching the same cartoons over and over, and eating lunch meat straight out of the plastic container. Ok, that’s just me, but finding bread is so exhausting. Nod your head. You agree.

But, miserable weather is also an opportune time to tell tales of brave cats.

It is. Hush.

A perfect gentleman, Salavador Perez has settled into life around the Split level and been nothing short of a cat who kind of acts like a dog. But not our dog. Because that would mean he sleeps in my spot when he thinks I’m not looking and is dangerously close to being volunteered as a rescue dog for avalanche victims in the Alps.

No, Salvador is polite, loves attention, but also tells me my hair looks great, and I love that. He’s also taken up residence on the front porch, or rather a hole under the front porch, to be more specific. It wasn’t until he came flying out of that hole, late in the evening, that we realized there was a problem.

Husband backed in the front door. “It’s a raccoon.”

I clutched my Kindle. “Are you sure it’s not a very small, lost pigmy goat?”

“I’m sure. And it won’t get away with this. It’s stealing the cat’s food.”

*Please note: Husband is extremely taken with the cat, and tends to side with him on most issues.

Admittedly, I wasn’t entirely convinced it was a raccoon, until my sister spent the night and, the next morning, declared herself to be the winner of a thirty second staring contest she’d had through the window with the masked intruder.

As she put it. “I stared down your raccoon, last night.”

And so, when our squatter showed himself the night before last, Husband was at the ready.

“What are you doing?”

He clutched the baseball bat. “I’m going to scare it.”

“Will you be having the raccoon slow pitch to you?”

“Nope.”

“Good. Because anything less than a curve ball, and they insult so easily.”

At a moment’s notice, everything spun out of control. There was a lot of screaming, a bat smacking the front porch, and a raccoon saying completely inappropriate things.

“He ran down the stairs.”

“Maybe he thought you were trying to get him to join a little league team.”

Husband has sworn his revenge on the raccoon, and I won’t pretend that a set of beady eyes watching TV over my shoulder doesn’t unnerve me. – After all, I’m just a killer of spiders – But we can’t let poor Salvador be disenfranchised either.

Which is why I should probably just make another spot on my bed.

Until Next Time, Readers!

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Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles (June 2013). You can reach her at .

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.