Evinrude is home, roaming the house with the rapidly-decaying remains of a 2.5 microcuries dose of I-131 which, in terms of radiation, puts him somewhere between a chest X-ray and a toaster oven. It's a toss-up which sounds louder right now, Rudy's purr or the Geiger counter the vet used to scan him before she sent him home.

So there he sits, crankily ensconced in a corner of the deck I barricaded with rabbit fence. He's got food and water, lots of spots to sit, a house plant, a litter box, and a window ledge from which he can watch his sworn enemy, the cat next door, give him the finger.

The vet said not to let Rudy sleep in the bed. In fact, he has to stay at least three feet away from everyone except for "brief and necessary periods of contact" until Wednesday, when the half-life of the isotope that's saving his life has run down. Then Rudy's free to roam the house and claw the couch and say mean things about me on Oprah during his book tour.