Not long ago, I was sitting on the picnic table at the dog park

“I did something awful,” he said. “I slept with one of my patients.”

Phew, I thought. Was worried for a second there he was going to say he’d killed a woman at a dog park.

“That’s not so bad,” I said. “I’m sure that kind of thing happens all the time.”

“You don’t understand,” he said. “I’m a vet.”

“Oh, please,” I said, with a wave of my hand. “I sleep with dogs all the time. Every night. Cats, too.”

“I don’t think you’re getting me,” the man said. He let out an exasperated sigh, ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “I mean … in the carnal sense.”

“You slept with a cardinal?” I said. “That’s adorable! But weren’t you afraid of rolling over on it? I mean, my mom raised a bluejay once, and she used to nap with him sometimes, but not out and out sleep, like in the all-night sense. She’d be snoozing on the couch and the jay would fly over and snuggle down on her, tuck his head under his wing. I guess if you need someone to talk to about sleeping with birds, she might be able to help.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but after a long moment, closed it again. He stared at me strangely, shook his head, and then left. I was relieved to see him go. There was something not quite right about the man.

I’ve just returned from a long sick. It was nothing serious, but for most of the first long weekend I was stuck in bed, unable to sleep, while the rest of the time I was stuck in bed, unable to stay awake. During that whole time, there wasn’t a moment at least one animal wasn’t with me.

Concerned and selfless creatures that they are, during the days when my fever was raging, the cats stayed especially close, often sprawled on top of me in an almost luxuriating way. I suspect they were feigning that look of extreme comfort to deter me from attempting to stand and move about, knowing I wouldn’t want to displace them. Cats must instinctively know bed rest is essential for human recuperation.

The dogs were equally helpful, serving as foot-, arm-, and head-rests, and occasionally testing whether my congestion had lifted based on my reaction to their noxious gases.

The dogs also served as a measure for knowing when I absolutely had to force myself from the bed. This service they provided by sniffing me rather thoroughly, registering an expression of glee, then flinging themselves onto my body, upon which they would roll. Knowing this behavior is generally reserved for when they’ve found something decomposing, I recognized it was time for a bath.

And a trip to the doctor.

While in the waiting room, I noticed a familiar-looking man, wearing scrubs, seated in the corner. He avoided meeting my gaze.

I wanted to ask, but refrained.

Was he there to be treated for canarial disease?

Or reptile dysfunction?

Truth be told, I never would’ve expected to use the word “wise” together with “Kurt” unless another three-letter-word tagged along. (And I don’t mean “guy.”)

Kurt has always been the typically tormenting big brother. With his assistance, I learned of under-the-bed monsters and gained experience in the world of wedgies and Indian burns. Kurt taught me the wisdom to be had in carefully checking a phone before pressing one to my head (this he accomplished by randomly filling my earpiece with Vaseline), and not to freak over what appears to be a disgusting substance on a bathroom doorknob. If the prankster’s been by, it’s most likely chunky peanut butter.

So basically, I guess I should be accustomed to being surprised by my brother, and this latest is just more of the same. Yet it’s not.

Considering that our Year of Financial Disaster became plural (both first word and last), I sent Kurt an email to ask if he was OK with us not exchanging gifts this Christmas. He answered that it was totally fine with him.

I suppose I should interject for a moment to mention that one of my peeves is how sparing my brother is with written words. He generally treats sentences as if he’s being charged for each word. I anticipated no more from him than “OK.”

Instead, he wrote about how, in years past, he would ask our dad what he wanted for Christmas, and Dad would always say he didn’t want anything at all.

“If I bought him something a little on the expensive side,” Kurt wrote, “he’d seem distraught and almost annoyed by the present. Several times it made me kind of scratch my head as to why he was acting this way, but I think I now understand.”

It turns out that Tori, Kurt’s 20-year-old daughter, had just sent him an email asking what he wanted for Christmas.

“It deeply touched me, and at the same time, it burdened my heart. I see how hard she works for what little she makes. I know her financial burdens with the car, the horse she rescued, medical bills, rent, a school loan, etc. But even with all that, she still wanted to share some of what little she has left to give me a present.”

Kurt’s an engineer, so if he wants or needs something, he can usually afford to buy it.

“Tori knows this,” wrote my brother, “but still wants to give me something. How do you accept a gift from your child? In one sense, I feel guilty because she can’t really afford it, but at the same time, I feel honored. Whatever she decides to give me, I’ll truly cherish it. The intent from the heart of the giver is the true gift, and the present is just part of the packaging.”

My own daughter is still young enough that the money she spends for our gifts usually comes from our wallet, so Kurt’s revelation had not occurred to me. In retrospect, it seems obvious now. Dad being uncomfortable with presents had nothing to do with what we selected, but in him not wanting us to be burdened with spending what we worked hard to earn on something for him.

(For the record, Mom seems as uneasy about gifts as Dad, but she’s generally such a bubbly person that it isn’t as noticeable.)

And so the dilemma of the gift-seeking child — to find something special enough that it conveys affection, yet inexpensive enough not to cause parental discomfort.

For years I’ve sort of prided myself on being a careful selector of gifts. I want my recipients to be able to see that much thought went into what they were given so they’d know how much they meant to me.

And now that I better understand the reasoning behind my parents’ discomfort, I feel challenged to find something that doesn’t — as my brother put it — burden their heart.

I need to trust it’s not how good the gift is that matters. And trust, too, that my recipient knows how good the giver wants it to be.

“What’s with the bird?”

“He looks fine to me.”

“Why’s he standing on one leg?”

“Parakeets just do that sometimes.”

“Looks like he doesn’t have a choice. His other leg’s on the floor.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“Hey, Mom! Petey lost a leg!”

“He’s old. Leave him be. He can make do with one.”

“He doesn’t seem too upset.”

“Think his wings are detachable, too?

“I said, leave him be. You’re brother’s doing okay with just half his wits. The bird’ll be fine with half his allotment of legs.”

“Speaking of birds, you sure that’s a turkey? It looks too big for the oven.”

“It’s a swan. We get more stuffing that way.”

“She’s not serious, is she?”

“Can’t say. She’s got a cookbook on emu.”

“Remember when Mom got thrown off the set of Sesame Street for chasing Big Bird with a carving knife?”

“That was ages ago. You kids don’t forget anything.”

“Oh, hey. There’s goes the other leg.”

“Bird down! We’ve got a bird down over here!”

“Want I should pop the legs off this Barbie?”

“Where’s the Gorilla Glue?”

“Thank goodness Grandpa isn’t here to see what morons y’all turned out to be.”

“Hey! I’m right here.”

“Who dug up grandpa?”

“The dogs have muddy feet.”

“Good thing I had jerky in my pocket or I’d have been digging myself out for days.”

“Just maneuvering to get a drumstick for once.”

“I earned those drumsticks.”

“Would someone put Petey’s legs on a platter for Grandpa?”

“Anyone seen my watch?”

“You had it on when you were filling the turkey.”

“Let’s just call it CrackerJack stuffing. Comes with a prize.”

“Hey! There’s a angry swan on the deck. Wants to know if we’ve seen his mate.”

“And would you look at that? He has only one leg.”

***

Enjoy your family this Thanksgiving. No matter how strange.

“Searching for the remote two or three times every night isn’t charming,” I said.

“It’s something you and I get to do together,” Geoff said. “Just the two of us.”

A fan of togetherness I might be, but most of the search parties sent out for missing items in our house have only one member — me.

Geoff and Celeste are both quick to declare defeat if the object they’re looking for isn’t found right away. For them, defeat merely means involving me in the hunt. They’re both totally fine with that part of the process, while I’m convinced their inability to find something on their own is directly related to how comfortable I happen to be at the time of their search.

The most frustrating part is that nine times out of 10, the item is exactly where I told them to look.

Like many women, I keep a running inventory of certain household items. If I see a pair of eyeglasses where they don’t belong, the location is logged in my brain. If I notice a jacket slung over the back of a chair rather than left by the door, I take note. Some female friends I talked with say they do the same, yet in each of their households, a similar scenario is replayed on a regular basis.

He: “I can’t find my keys.”

She: “They’re in the dish on the hall table.”

He: “They’re not here.”

She (after lifting the mail that was on top of the keys that were in the dish on the hall table): “Here.”

My husband insists women are simply better than men at finding lost items, as though our female parts function as some sort of homing device, an internal GPS unit that directs us toward random possessions.

If one accepts that women are more adept at finding lost items than men, the next question would be at what age in a female’s life does the tracking device roar to life? I can say without hesitation that, at least in our house, the age isn’t 14. If there were only one T-shirt hanging in my daughter’s closet, I suspect she’d be incapable of finding it without my assistance.

I will never understand how the world’s greatest detectives have been men. It seems impossible to me that in a crime scene filled with myriad items, a man could locate the sliver of toothpick with enough DNA to indict. Especially when that same man can’t find the eyeglasses he put on top of his head.

Mom says a man’s ability to find things is directly related to whether or not his wife is nearby (or reachable by phone).

I read there’s scientific reasoning behind men’s inability to find what they’re looking for, claiming that men look for a shape, while women look for an object. Females pay attention to all details of an object, but men quickly assess a situation and issue their response. (Their response usually starts with, “Honey, do you know where … .”)

Whatever the reason for the disparity, if my man keeps losing his marbles, his woman could end up losing her mind.

It was late last Halloween when, through the curtains,

This group was larger than most—not quantity-wise, but in physical size. These clearly weren’t children. Their costumes were elaborate, impressive. Authentic.

Curious, I didn’t wait until I heard the bell to open the door. I wasn’t greeted by a rowdy Trick or treat! but rather a handsome, pale Dracula looking at me with the same confused expression our dog gets when we pretend to throw the ball. The Count tilted his head first to the left, then to the right, then looked back at his friends and shrugged.

“I’m not sure we’re in the right place,” he said. “We were referred by a man up the street. He said you’re the only real witch he knows.”

“I have my moments,” I said.

He smiled, revealing fangs that blended flawlessly with his teeth. I appreciated his attention to detail, though suspected he might be hitting the tooth whitener a little too hard. His choppers were almost luminescent.

Behind him stood two witches, a ghost, a skeleton, and a mummy who was carrying—by its hair—what looked like a head. Their costumes were the most traditional I’d seen all evening. I was charmed.

I held out a candy bar, but the Count shook his head.

“We were wondering if you might want to. . .”

“Join us,” said the ghost.

“But I’m not in costume,” I said.

I wasn’t trying to be funny, but for some reason, they laughed.

Though not normally an adventurous sort, I was intrigued enough to grab my coat and go along. The two witches appeared to be having the most fun, so I walked first with them.

“So how do you know each other?” I asked the many-moled pair.

“We were broommates in college.”

The ladies were interesting, staying completely in character. When we passed a little girl dressed as Dorothy, they made the sign of the cross and ran. It took ages to calm them back down.

The mummy didn’t seem to have much to say, and what he did say was muffled, so tightly wrapped was his face. He talked about needing a place to relax and unwind, maybe listen to some of his favorite music. I think he said it was rap.

“So what’s up with the head?” I asked.

“Don’t mind him,” he said. “He’s sulking. He wanted to go dancing tonight, but that never goes well. He doesn’t have any body to dance with.”

The vampire was my next walking mate, except when I tried to joke with him and asked if he vanted to suck my blood, he got sort of offended. Said he wasn’t that kind of vampire. He said he was more the Krispy Kreme type, explaining that he prefers to suck the jelly out of donuts than blood out of necks.

“I don’t sparkle either,” he said.

At the first major intersection, the skeleton stopped. In spite of our increasingly aggressive nudging, we couldn’t get him to move.

Dracula leaned close to me and whispered, “Know why the skeleton won’t cross the road?”

I shook my head.

“He doesn’t have the guts.”

This was a game I knew how to play.

“Know why the ghost will cross the road?” I asked. “Because he wants to get to The Other Side.”

We’d been walking for a while, heading toward town, but I still had no idea what our destination would be. I was surprised when I realized it was just an ordinary, hole-in-the-wall bar.

“Why here?” I asked, and then, thinking I’d be clever, said, “Are you needing some spirits?”

“Don’t be silly,” said the ghost. “I’m here for the boos.”

The bar wasn’t crowded—just a morose-looking Frankenstein sitting alone, plus a few zombies bumping into the walls.

The skeleton asked the bartender for a drink and a mop, and I knew I was in for a long night.

This seems an appropriate time of year to admit that I have a thing for zombies.

Neither of us expected to like the show, but it had been recommended so passionately by an undead-loving friend that we gave it a try. We imagined it would be rife with zombie clichés — the stiff-armed creatures stumbling after the survivors, hoping to munch on their brains — but the show surprised us by being well written, intense and compelling.

By the time we finished watching the first season, I was hooked. I needed more zombies.

My affection for all things morbid goes back a long way. I cut my teeth on Chiller Theater and “Tales from the Crypt.” Stephen King was practically my Dr. Seuss. But then for a while, horror seemed to go out of style, especially monster-type horror. It wasn’t until books like “Interview with the Vampire” and “Twilight” and shows like “True Blood” that vampires were brought back under the limelight (where some of them sparkled), but zombies now seem poised to stage a coup.

The popularity of the video game “Resident Evil,” movies like “Zombieland” and “28 Days Later,” and the TV show “The Walking Dead” has Hollywood scrambling for more zombie lore.

The biggest problem with zombies and Hollywood is the undead’s lack of sex appeal. It’s darn near impossible to make a zombie into a romantic leading character.

Imagine a scene starring the zombie equivalents of Edward and Bella, looking deep into each other’s eyes (perhaps one of them dangling), while he says, “It’s not just your body. I really love your brain.”

I mean, with zombies, there’s that whole necrophilia taboo, along with the undead’s propensity for dropping appendages at inopportune times. To come up with something semi-sexy involving zombies seems almost impossible.

Which is just the kind of thing that tweaks my interest, writing-wise. My husband’s, too. Tell either of us it can’t be done and we start brainstorming on how it can.

That’s how the two of us came to be writing a zombie novel together. I’m not sure if we can keep the momentum to take it all the way to completion, but the early research has been fun. (For the record, we have not violated any corpses. Just read lots of books and watched many movies.)

Geoff and I have written together before, but never attempted something this big. He’s good at keeping me grounded, story-wise, stopping me from doing things like having a zombie employed as an Organ Procurement Specialist.

I’ve also joined with a friend to gather zombie stories for an anthology we’re putting together. We’ve gathered some really good stories, enough that we’ve already started to look for a publisher.

My immersion into the world of the walking dead has led to a number of disturbing dreams. Sometimes, I’m the hungry, stiff-armed stumbler wishing for some not-so-fast food, but most of the time, I’m the one being chased. After such dreams, I calm myself by remembering than while zombies eat flesh, their preference is brains.

With that being the case, I should be perfectly safe.

The East End Zombie Walk will take place at 6 p.m. Oct. 26 starting at Appalachian Power Park. For more information, visit holloweast.com.

My husband is an editor, for which I’m so grateful.

He’s prevented me from shaving myself publicly many times.

I mean, shaming myself.

And there’s another editor or two who looks over my stuff before it appears in the paper, a necessity for those who trip over words the way I sometimes do.

Still, I love a good typo. Love them so much I’ve been saving some of my favorites for the past several years. I especially love the ones that turn what should’ve been a perfectly innocent sentence into something lewd.

For instance, a newsletter article about training incorrigible animals featured a question and answer section. The first letter was from a man frustrated by his stupid German shepherd mix. I imagine what he intended to write was, “My dog is untrainable.” Except he accidentally added an “n” to “dog.”

A secretary in a law office sent an email to hundreds of participants that had registered for a conference to inform them of the different workshops that would be available. Her announcement said they would have “sex sessions.” She meant “six.”

You would think those seeking employment would put the most effort into proofreading their resumes and applications, making certain they’re flawless. That isn’t the case. After CNN Money’s Ask Amy column ran a story about typos on resumes, they were flooded with examples.

One man “directed $25 million anal shipping and receiving operations.”

Another claimed to be “great with the pubic.”

A resume bragged about being, “Instrumental in ruining the entire operation for a Midwest chain store.” While another said they’d “received a plague for Salesperson of the Year.”

A secretarial job applicant reported herself as being “a fat and accurate typist.” Another applicant hit the space bar at all the wrong times when reporting that her previous employer, a psychotherapist, was “psycho the rapist.”

Under job duties: “Filing, billing, printing and coping.”

And under education: “I have a bachelorette degree in computers.”

One listed that she had “good profreading skills” and could demonstrate her “ability in multi-tasting.” Another’s current duties included, “Answering phones, filing papers, responding to customer emails, and taking odors.”

A medical transcriptionist reported that her company’s voice recognition software automatically changed words in ways that were funny. For instance, instead of typing, “For erectile dysfunction, Cialis,” it altered the text to read, “For erectile dysfunction, see Alice.”

One woman reported that her friend went to a job recruitment fair and handed out about 30 copies of her resume before realizing she had listed her degree as “Bachelor o Farts.”

When trying to compliment a coworker for his excellent report, a woman wrote in her email that it was an “excrement report.”

Careful editing is more important for reasons other than just saving face. It can actually save a life. Consider the importance of a simple comma. Instead of, “Let’s eat Grandma” it’s “Let’s eat, Grandma.” Or “If anyone’s wants to eat my husband could make a great stew.”

As my editor husband likes to say, “When it comes to proofreading, the red penis your friend.”

The recent mob violence by young people in London

Call me naive for being so stunned by these actions, but it feels like our world has been suddenly overrun with sugared-up, sleep-deprived toddlers who see something they want so they snatch it and go. No rules. No manners. No thought of what their actions will bring them or others long term.

It wasn’t so long ago that the term “flash mob” was used to describe a group that coordinated via social networking sites to arrive at a predetermined destination for some act of silliness — group pillow fights, choreographed dances, dressing alike, freezing in place.

But the term was stolen by thugs who are using the same means — linking up via mass emails, tweets or social networking sites — because they’re hellbent on taking whatever they’ve a notion to take and on committing violence upon whoever tries to stop them or merely crosses their path.

While reading online news articles about some of the most recent violence, I was taken aback by some who posted comments afterward that sounded as though they’re proud of the “cleverness” of the culprits, saying they’d outsmarted the store owners and used technology to stay one step ahead of authorities.

What they failed to recognize was that their heroes took what didn’t belong to them while perpetrating violence against innocents. That’s nothing to admire. Unless there’s something wrong with a person, it should trigger a sense of disgust.

Just two weeks ago, I attended a Neighborhood Watch meeting for Ward 7 in St. Albans with my friends Desper and MaryLou Lemon. Desper is a councilman for that ward, and he and his neighbors have worked hard to establish an active watch group for their area. It’s been extremely successful thus far, with neighbors getting to know each other and establishing relationships with the St. Albans police.

The point their group emphasized was the importance in looking out for each other. It’s the sense of community that’s missing in these snatch-and-grab mobsters. It’s odd that they can recognize the value in connecting with others enough to build strength in numbers — when so many converge on a business, it’s nearly impossible to stop — yet they fail to see that this connection with those around us requires us to be responsible. We’re all in this together.

Communities need to step up and say this is unacceptable. We need to look out for each other now, because if we don’t, this is only going to continue and spread.

These wild groups frighten me. This isn’t only going to be a Philadelphia or Chicago or Los Angeles problem. It’s going to affect all of us in one way or another. It’s difficult enough for businesses to operate these days. Prices will skyrocket because of the cost that stores will incur to protect their goods and their customers. We’re heading toward times of nothing but online shopping or armed guards at the door.

So how do we combat such insanity? Curfews aren’t the only answer, since these groups are organizing and assembling in broad daylight and are arrogant enough to walk right into places that have security cameras.

Perhaps sending technology a few steps backward could help, disabling the ability to communicate with large numbers of people from just about anywhere. Or perhaps the police should be equipped with even more advanced technology so they’re automatically alerted when some sort of action like this is being organized.

These are premeditated, organized crimes and should be treated as such. They should be automatic felonies, regardless of the dollar value of the items taken.

Our country doesn’t work because the police force us to behave. It works because we’re a society of civilized people who have created a system to keep stability. We work in order to have. We don’t take what isn’t ours. We cause no harm. We punish those who do.

Personally, I’d like to see some creative punishments for those caught in the act. I’d like to see the victims of these crimes be allowed to go into the homes of the perpetrators — maybe invite along a few dozen friends — while they go on a spree of sorts, taking whatever they want from the criminal’s home.

These bratty toddlers aren’t going to recognize the ugliness of their actions until they experience the same sort of random senselessness themselves.

Summer sounds like flip-flops.

Tastes like watermelon.

Smells like Coppertone.

Summer is shaking sand from your towel and being sticky and licking fast around the cone before it drips.

It’s blowing bubbles, and dandelions, and kisses.

Summer is feet in the water off the edge of a dock.

Jumping waves.

Diving for pennies.

Splashing and dunking and a stomach sore from belly flops.

Hopping on your heels, hoping for that warm release of water trapped in your ear.

“This isn’t reading like a column,” my husband — an editor by profession — says to me at this point, his finger marking his place. “What exactly are you trying to do here?”

“I don’t know,” I say, spinning around in my chair. “I got up so early, had the window open, the fan going. All the smells keep reminding me of things — summer things.”

Like the way summer tastes like hose water and feels like peach juice running down your arm and the burn of salt in your nose.

How it’s all about bee stings on bare feet, Solarcaine on shoulders, grass-stained knees. Mud between happy toes.

Summer smells like honeysuckle and chlorine and burgers cooking on the grill. It sounds like bullfrogs and the squeak-clank of swing chains going almost — but never quite — so high that they wrap.

Summer is marshmallow torches and blistered black hot dogs and popsicles broken in half. It’s sweet tea sipped on a porch. Chalk drawings on sidewalks. Lightning bugs in jars.

“You’re clearly having a better summer than most people,” Geoff said. He waved me away from my keyboard, then sat down and typed:

“Summer is bird nests in flower pots and wasp nests on windows and yellow jacket nests where you can’t help but mow.”

I followed his lead.

Summer smells like moist mongrels and damp dumpsters and a wet load of laundry that’s lingered too long.

Summer is poster board on phone poles, tents in backyards, a warm spot in the pool.

It’s tumbles of shed dog fur drifting along baseboards; straightened hair that goes curly; curled hair that goes straight.

It’s a time for forgetting grudges and chores and appointments, but not so much for forgetting the milk on the back seat of your car.

Summer is like breathing air straight from the hair dryer, sticking to car seats, becoming a gallon blood donor by way of mosquito.

It’s the hours you spend running your fingers through your hair after hearing someone say “tick.”

The smell of melted crayons. The cost of melted lipstick.

The storms that appear out of nowhere minutes after you’ve paid a nonrefundable admission at a water park.

Summer is when you want to fall asleep to the sound of crickets outside, rather than the single soloist insect somewhere in your house.

Summer is almost half over.

It might be hard to see now, through the shimmer of heat, but sneaking along behind are wood smoke, outdoor bleachers, warm soup and the crunch of fallen leaves under your feet.

I suspect I know why.

I think the secret ingredient in newsprint is catnip.

And I believe they use it in computer keyboards as well.

The act of opening a paper or pressing on keys must be what activates the catnip, thereby drawing the feline.

My keyboard is new, so I looked on the box. No ingredients are listed.

Perhaps the catnip content is why newspapers come in little plastic bags — to lock in the scent so carriers can toss papers on porches and stray cats strolling by don’t catch a whiff and tear them to shreds.

My husband doesn’t agree. He insists the attraction is a matter of mathematics, that cats calculate the location or item upon which the placement of their body will cause the most nuisance or draw the greatest attention.

Sometimes I try to trick ours by carrying an old paper in along with the new, just to see if they can determine which holds the freshest news. They’ve never been wrong. (I’m pretty sure I once caught one checking the dates.)

Sully, our longhaired black cat, was mostly feral when we first met. It took a vast amount of time and patience (and meat) to tame him, but these days, he’s my most constant companion when I write.

He’s also my most frequent impediment.

There’s a window behind my desk that leads onto our roof. When I started writing the paragraph above (the one that starts with his name), Sully tapped on my window asking to be let out. Before I finished typing the word “roof,” he was tapping on the glass, wanting back in.

In spite of the feeble barriers I construct to prevent him from walking across my keyboard, he finds ways to interfere. Block the left and right sides, he’ll leap onto my lap. Block my lap, he’ll come up and over from behind.

Lock him out of the room, and he’ll yowl so pitifully (and relentlessly) at the door that concentration is impossible.

And yet there’s something about his wicked determination to be right where I am, to participate in what I’m doing, that feels like a high compliment.

Our other cat, Squirt, is generally content with draping his ample girth over my printer like a blanket. There he’ll remain for hours on end, so diligently inert you might believe he’s posing for the world’s slowest sculptor.

Squirt serves as our family’s alarm clock. He’s accurate and reliable, impervious to power outages. If a snooze button exists for Squirt, we’ve yet to learn how to work it. Of course, his mission isn’t so much to provide a service to us or to a duty he’s honor bound to perform, but to himself: He’s out to procure his breakfast. Once his meal has been presented, just as often as not, he’ll take a mere nibble or two, and then walk away. For that, we’ve been yowled from our beds.

Still, it’s allowed us to stop using alarm clocks. He’s not failed us yet.

Including on weekends and holidays.

And I don’t have to be psychic to predict that’s not going to change anytime soon.