You Can't Have My Mole

Mummy P. is doing well with her two wonderful caretakers. Two nights in Stiletto are not easy for Plottie any more, but he realizes how lucky he is to have his Mom still able to go down to Grand Central Market and walk around by the smoked chile counter.

True, she tied her record going to Burbank airport: Seven (7) "I just hate it when you leave" and "But I can't begin to tell you how happy I am that you came down to see me." If we were driving to LAX there is no telling what her score would be.

Plottie laughs about it but it always hits him hard. He knows she's in a lonely and isolated part of her life. He also knows he can't do anything about it. He wishes she could see better. But she can't. He wishes she could hear better. But she won't. And he wishes she could remember what she said ten minutes before. Sometimes she can.

He'll be there too, if he's lucky. He hopes his kids have more patience with him than he sometimes does with Mummy P. None of this is her fault. Well, the hearing.

Plot and Duck are home now. The TSA would not allow him to bring home his two containers of mole in his carry-0n.

"What is this?" said the officer.

"Mole," said Plotnik.

"Mole's good," said the officer.

"Yes," said Plotik.

"Sorry it's got to go in the trash." said the officer.

"No way," said Plotnik, so he had the officer walk him out of the secure area, where he walked back through the airport to the check in area, checked his bag with the mole, white beans and smoked peppers in it, and now it's sitting in the kitchen, ready to go.