I drink. There I’ve said it. The secret is out.  Not that I’m about to get up at the podium and take the pledge at some Bill W. support group meeting but for all who wonder how I get through weeks of hisses, growls and various acts of defiance by any number of dogs, cats, rabbits and the like and still manage to retain my sanity...

I have read it is Vogue chic to splash a bit of this or that into ones morning juice and greeting the day with something French and sparkling is better than a Starbucks, but as stylish it might be Chardonnay with my mornings breakfast of scrambled eggs is not quite my style.

My style is more pedestrian if you please. After the weeks obligatory responsibilities have all been tended and the house put back in order, an even two fingered whiskey neat sipped lazily on a late Saturday night is in perfect keeping with my claim on sanity.

The burning warmth of liquid gold as it enraptures my body with much the same comfort as that of my perfectly worn easy chair allow me the quiet luxury of reveling in the fact that another week of life with the whisker pusses ended with injury to none.

Whiskey and whiskers…  I believe this was the original title to Dr. Doolittle.