John made a circle with one hand. Horatio walked around in a circle. Pebbles and the kittens did, too. John clicked and gave out more treats.

“Wow,” he said. “I guess they’ve been paying attention all along. I’ve been doing short sessions with Horatio for a while now. Something to do while we’re trying to stay out of the workmen’s way.”

“That’s amazing,” I said. “Maybe we can start posting YouTube videos and quit our jobs as soon as they’re famous.”

John sat on the floor beside Horatio and extended his legs in front of him. He tapped the floor on the other side of his legs. Horatio jumped over his legs. Oreo galloped over and half walked/half jumped over John’s legs, too. The other cats looked like they wanted to, but stayed where they were.

John clicked and gave Horatio and Oreo each a treat.

“Aww,” I said. “But I think the others should get treats, too, just for considering it.”

“That will only confuse them,” John said. “They need to associate the behavior with the reward.”

“Fine,” I said. “Then make them sit again, so they don’t look so sad.”

John did one more round of sitting, clicking, and treats, then he hid the treat bag out of sight in the closet. The kittens immediately ran over and started scratching at the door.

“It won’t be long,” John said, “before they figure out how to open doors.”

I sighed. “I wish they’d stay kittens forever. And I wish you and I would stop being mad at each other.”

John sighed, too, sat down beside me on the couch. “It’s late.”

“I know. But the longer we don’t talk to each other, the more I get used to it and that scares me. And I honestly can’t even remember what the whole thing is about anymore.”

When John turned to look at me, the light hit his glasses. He had a big smudge across one lens, possibly ricochet from when I sprayed everybody down on the kitchen floor.

I reached over and slid his glasses off his face, polished them with the hem of my T-shirt, handed them back.

“Thanks,” he said. “I think that’s the most domestic thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

I held out the hem of my T-shirt like a skirt. “See, before you know it I’ll be wearing aprons with ruffles.”

“I’d settle for a month without thirty days of casseroles,” John said.

“30 days hath September,” I chanted, “April, June and November. All the rest have 31, except when February is done. Because it only has 28 days I fear, and 29 in each leap year.”

I cleared my throat. “Sorry. But may I point out that if you’re sick of casseroles, you know where the grocery store is.”