He was rubbing his hip with his right hand as he drove with his left. "It's about Dolly's lunch time." Our lives usually revolved around the four-times-per-day eating schedule of the chubby six-year-old grey and white tabby we traveled with. Being this cat's servants was pretty much a thankless job, but we adored her nonetheless. She always rode in the trailer when we were on the road. Otherwise, we'd be driven insane by Dolly's screeching and squalling as she plastered herself against the window trying to persuade people in passing vehicles to save her from such an injustice. Although it's not recommended, I'd ridden in the trailer with her one time when I felt under the weather. For some odd reason, traveling in the trailer didn't affect her at all. She had curled up in the middle of the sofa and slept peacefully all day. I was convinced it was just a power play on Dolly's part; a reminder of who called the shots in our household. "Yes, it's time for her majesty's twelve o'clock feeding," I said in response to Rip's remark.
