This is the crazy cat who lives in the attic. (Actually my office on the top floor.) She’s seventeen years old and I inherited her from a daughter and granddaughter who named her Thatcher. When my brother and sister-in-law were here in April they started calling her Margaret, which seemed a much nicer, softer name. My stepdaughters now address her by her full name.

Margaret Thatcher lives in my office because R. is allergic to cats, but she seems to be happy up here. The door is left open so she doesn’t feel trapped and she rarely leaves. Though the other night she apparently roamed around the house and a stepdaughter said at breakfast, “Margaret Thatcher was sitting at the top of the stairs and scared the daylights out of me. I thought she was a raccoon.”

We all find ourselves smiling now whenever anyone mentions Margaret Thatcher (cat or former Prime Minister). Which is a good thing these days.