What a bother. Tripod somehow ate today's entry, so here I am, on Tuesday night, rewriting it. Sorry for the break.
Fargo's paw is fine again. There's some mysterious molecule in cat spit that heals all wounds, cleans all foreign substances, and dissolves all known solid matter. Science should study it in detail. Their tongues are also pretty strange. If I lick my arm after a shower, it stays wet. If Fargo falls into the shower, which he has done (or in the toilet, which he has also done), he licks himself and becomes dry. Someone explain it to me.
They had an incident at work over the weekend. Someone broke one of the office windows and knocked some stuff over. In spite of the presence of lots of expensive alarm systems, nobody found out about it until this morning, when the receptionist came in and noticed that someone stole her clock-radio. That was all that was taken, though. With all the computers and everything else in that place, all they took was Renee's little clock radio, which couldn't be worth fifteen dollars. We all chipped in and got Renee a new one. Rule one of small business: the receptionist can make or break the company, so keep her happy.