And who is to blame late at night, when everyone is fast asleep, but you still had to have a glass of water—preferably cold, of course—and when one of the six kittens, that turned the entire household into a somewhat unpleasant zoo, ventures under your feet as you are backing off from the kitchen sink, letting out a terrifying scream altogether incommensurable with such a small beast. Who is to blame when you look under all the chairs to pet the unfortunate victim of your thirst, but cannot decide which one is to be petted most fervently, with apologies and reassurance, and when you also must hurry back to your wife who is coughing nervously in the dark, expecting to hear an explanation for all this. Yes, who is to blame, you think, but you nevertheless feel quite miserable as you are trying to find a comfortable position beside your wife, who will not even remember tomorrow morning, or ever for that matter, the havoc you created just because you had to be thirsty in the middle of the night.