The house is growing quiet, the murmuring kitchen radio and the uneven noise of the TV say "night." My husband laughs. Midnight in Paris, I think, a Woody Allen movie. My daughter is spread out under a comforter on the sofa, annoyed that she missed the closing ceremonies of the Olympics. Pippi is tightly curled by my left hip--my left elbow gently nudges his neck ruff and I can hear and feel his breathing. Pippi is the smallest of my cats, and I'm hopelessly fond of him.