If I’m found sprawled out and dead on my kitchen floor, it’s Blondie’s fault. Since she started on the increased prednisone, she haunts me in the kitchen every second I’m in there, even if I’m doing nothing more than grabbing a paper towel to clean up a bird mess. I can’t turn around without falling over her, bumping into her, or tripping on her feet. Her appetite is insatiable and no crumb is too small to escape her notice despite the fact that her nose is still clogged and cataracts fill her eyes. If this were 30 years ago, I’d swear she’d gotten into my stash and was having a wild bout of the munchies.