I sat on the couch, facing the television console, Julie on my left but not snuggled up to my side as she had proven herself to be not that kind of little person. Mrs. Beasley, however, was pulled close into her left side and Bozo made believe he was watching television seated on the end table, too close for comfort near my right side, but never violating the short distance between us. His remarkable ability to sit for hours on end, staring, or blinking ever so slowly, always amazed me and one day I’d look up why he acted that way, for the most part, instead of lying and sleeping his life away like most cats. Of course, I’d quickly come to understand that he was anything but a normal cat, any more than my wife was an ordinary wife or my daughter ordinary in any way.

The evening news came on, as I waited expectantly for more information on the fast-developing Watergate investigation that had turned into the Watergate coverup investigation. But the headline story was about anything but that. I watched the images crossing the screen of a burned-out passenger plane, its flame-blackened tail rising high in the air. United Flight 533 had crashed with no survivors flying into a small almost unknown airport called Midway, just on the outskirts of Chicago. Aboard the plane was a woman named Dorothy Hunt, wife of E. Howard Hunt.

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