Dg’s cat Hobbes has slaughtered three chipmunks in the past two days. The last appeared at the back door this morning at about 8:30 a.m. Hobbes was still batting at the body, trying to get it to play. Then at about 9 a.m., dg was roused from a blissful nap (er, writing session, er, oh, right, I was doing packets) by Jacob’s shouts from the kitchen. Hobbes and a fox were crouched and staring at each other in the tall grass (lawn mower malfunction). The fox took off, and Hobbes shot into the house, looking twice his normal size, breathing hard. This has nothing to do with writing, I am aware of that, but dg thought you should all know what a War Zone he lives in with bodies piling up and blood everywhere.