Sometime during the night, fall arrived.  The cats are trying to get in.  The wind’s blowing big fat dry leaves down the driveway and I can hear them out the window.  Them and the train.  And Buddy whining for breakfast.  Severn’s back in the anti-licking Elizabethan collar.  It doesn’t take much to throw Edie off balance and the collar succeeds several times a day.

Edie says “bless you” when she hears somebody sneeze.  And she asks “not nice?” when she tests out various mischiefs.  If I say “that’s nice” when she kisses Maizie, as opposed to pulling her by the tail off the dryer, she says “nice” and nods her head.  There’s a lot she wishes were nice like kicking when she’s getting her diaper—which she calls a bubble when it’s full—changed and sticking her toes in my eyes when she’s nursing.  The more tired she is, the more “nice” things she tries out.

When I pull in the driveway at the end of the day, I see the brown thrasher fly into the crape myrtle.  That’s his hiding spot.

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