No, not the cat.

A walk down memory lane to Bloom County - once the way every day started, but that was long ago - brings back a painful personal memory of the time I tried to purchase a product which was advertised to deal successfully with . . . jock itch.

The woman behind the counter in the drugstore - we used to call them that, before drugs became an issue in our society - in, of all places, Martha's Vineyard (before the presidents had found the island) where I was on vacation with my family, turned out to be a little hard of hearing, as we also used to say, and so her side of the brief dialogue was at a considerable volume higher than my own whispered side.

You know the drill.

I left the store empty-handed, jock itch to be dealt with another day, another way.

And so, I'm pleased to say (sparing you the details) . . .

It was.

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