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Listen to the sweet, faltering sounds of a Pachelbel canon that Priscilla painstakingly plays on the old parlor organ, one slow note at a time. Or the occasional melody that falls from her lips: "My cat, it has three corners. Three corners has my cat . . ." Smell the "light gray clay" she tromps in from dumping the kitty litter. Watch her zip down the wooded driveway with a load of brush in her golf cart. Experience her surprise as she tastes picante sauce on her toast. Feel the 24-hour sting of Washington nettle that she tries to rinse away with hot water. Three Corners Has My Cat:...