Every day, the same routine.

Get up at precisely four-thirty-five in the morning. Use the necessary. Comb fur. Put on clothes. A precisely groomed appearance is the mark of a gentleman. I may not be a gentleman, but at least I can get close.

Water the plants. Make tea. Oatmeal is best served with a smidgeon of honey. Extravagant? Maybe. But at my age, you can afford to be a little extravagant.

Here, my routine diverges since the little pest came to Treehollow. Before, I would spend my day in my rocking chair in Cutter's Corner, reading books and greeting library patrons. Now, I'm swamped with research. Ever more research. What are you? Where did you come from? Why haven't you any fur except that matted mop on the top of your overlarge cranium?

I suppose only time -- and effort -- will tell.