Master of the House

Well, one of two them, next to whom the two bipeds are mere supernumeraries.  Here we see Boudi in his favorite sunny corner in the drawing room at the Villa Muscato.  The rather regrettable white slipper chair was some previous tenant's idea; we inherited a great deal of tat courtesy of one of my predecessors over at Golden Handcuffs Consulting Amalgamated International, which provides not only employment, but also furnished accommodation to its lucky expatriate employees.  The crimson cushion, the blue-bordered fauxbusson, and the chinoiserie mirror, though are all ours.  Ditto the Yorkie, however much he thinks he owns us.  Some day I look forward, once again, to living with my own furniture.  If you're not careful, I'll show you the sofa, a swaybacked federal edifice in a distinctly dispiriting shade of pea-soup floral jacquard, and you'll know exactly what I mean.

If I'm in a domestic mood this weekend, it's because things are uncommonly quiet hereabouts.  Mr. Muscato is off for the approaching local holidays to see after Mama and the family in Egypt, leaving me and the dogs bereft.  Actually, I have to admit that, on a strictly temporary basis, it's rather nice, as I have a far greater tolerance for our lesser cabaret singers than Mr. M., and so have the music on whenever I like.  Still, I'll happily trade even dear Marie Blake for Mr. Muscato when it's time for him to come home.  Heaven knows the dogs will; they are already thoroughly bored with just me around to divert them...