I'm back in San Diego trying to sweat out this cold by remaining all wrapped up in bed. Yeah, I could do that in Orange County, but trust me when I say that staying bed ridden is way more entertaining here.

Of course while she is at work I have to keep a wary eye for her bipolar attack kitty – her demon feline that alternates from rubbing up on my legs to slashing them open should I do something vaguely threatening. Like breathe. Generally I just try to give her a wide berth or keep her entertained with that feather on a stick thing that seems to make every cat go bananas. This has two benefits. One, it tires out the terror tabby after a few minutes of obsessive pouncing, and, two, it keeps her at least six feet away from any vulnerable, exposed skin. I’d switch to leather pants, but really, this is San Diego. I only know a couple people down here who can make that look work.

She, of course, insists that her cat is a sweet, loving, gentle creature and the best kitty in the world, but, honestly, that's just a variation of the love-blind delusion that makes every new parent believe that they have the cutest baby in the neighborhood despite the fact most newborn babies look like a miniature Mr. Magoo in Pampers.

“But she loves me” she says. Sure. She loves her. Everyone else is a mobile scratching post. I bet Hitler loved somebody too. Come to think of it, this is the same excuse I hear from battered wives.

To make my case, this is the SECOND time that Cybil the cat has been the subject of a blog entry.

Regardless, I'm in San Diego, there is a tabby cat mewing at me, it's pouring rain, and our climbing trip is in serious jeopardy.

Besides. I'm still sick.

Probably best to just, uh, stay in bed.