Here we are back in our narrow staircase again, this time headed downward. In the fall of 2000, when Tiffany and her crew were about halfway through painting our house, our dear old 17-year-old cat, Muffin, was gathered to her Maker. Jerry, who had been Muffin's boy for 16 of those years, was especially grieved. This is Muffin, poised in the doorway to the same Monet-skied world as in our bedroom. The box you can just make out in the center of Muffin's “landing” is our doorbell. (One service worker asked us where the door led to, and how we got to the door!)

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