A couple of weeks back, Mike got of hanging out in ho-hum, humdrum places such as New York, Las Vegas and San Francisco and so he snuck away from his family, stowed away on an Alaska Airlines get and came up to see me.

We had a great time, hanging out with moose, swatting mosquitoes and breaking small chunks of ice off glaciers to chill our Pepsi.

"Hey!" I said one day. "Russia's just across the strait! Want to go to your ancestral homeland?" Boy, did Mike get excited! His tail was swishing, his ears were perked and his eyes were bright and wide.

So we headed on over and, boy, those Russians were impressed.

"Why, that is the finest American Russian Blue cat I ever seen!" One old reindeer herder praised. We were having great time, eating cavier, and swapping lewd jokes with folks that we met, and then we made the mistake of sitting down to dinner with a certain, jovial group.

A matronly lady began the evening with a vodka toast. "To Michael!" she lifted the bottle, "the most beautiful American Russian Blue cat in the world." Mike and I are both normally teetotalers, but we figured one toast could not hurt, so we joined in. Well, in Russia, there is no such thing as one toast and soon, the room was spinning, English and Russian words were weaving indicipherably about each other, and Mike was caterwauling, yowling, falling, landing on all parts but his feet and then he coughed up the most horrid hairball one could never imagine.

The next morning, we both woke up on the floor with terrible headaches. Mike started meowing for his Mommy, so I put him on a plane and sent him home. Otherwise, it was a great adventure, and Mike was among the best traveling buddies that I have ever had. I'd go anywhere with him again, but no more toasting.

A brief life history of Thunder Paws: http://homepage.mac.com/jimslim/PhotoAlbum3.html