Last summer I was having one of those what's-the-meaning-of-life?-moments. (A delicious, moonbeam-drenched man was the catalyst for my mood.) I went for a walk alone, in a pretty neighborhood near my house. As I strolled down tree-shaded, quiet streets and ambled past clapboard houses and silent dogs, I heard distant voices and the clatter of crockery. People were having dinner on their screened-in porches.
Suddenly a cat sidled up to me.
"Hello," I said to the cat. I crouched down and looked it in the eyes. "Could you please tell me the meaning of life?"
The cat said nothing, but a voice wafted from a nearby porch. "Stanley eats a pound of vegetables every day."
And that, apparently, is the meaning of life, my friend.