Dear Mom:
Yes, we're still fine!
We do hope that you and your little wunderkind-diva, Gracie the Favored One, are enjoying yourselves up in the mountains. We forgive you for leaving us with the crazed Lesser Male, whom we cannot torment as much as you. He simply launches into an exegesis of the advantages of canine lobotomies, smiles, and asks us politely to stop barking. WE NEED SOMEONE CAPABLE OF MANIPULATION. We miss you!
The temperature has fallen to the boiling-point of bronze, and we're chillin'! Life is good in the South!
I--Bailey, the Previously Anointed One and Actual Diva--continue to guard the domicile against the incursions of the Evil One. Yes, there are Wabbit Turds all over the back yard, and my status is upgraded to Defense Condition 2! One more turd, and there will be a massive retaliatory response. WMD!
Buster allows that he is not especially concerned. About wabbits, or much of anything!
A piece of work, that one!
The Price of Wabbit-Freedom is Eternal Vigilance!
You will never have to worry.
Just relax, and enjoy your stay beside the Pond, up in the cooling airs of New Hampshire, with that little courtesan gold-digger.
Under normal circumstances, Buster's beloved Wilson-ball is only knowable to him by the quarks and gluons that indicate the path that it has taken. Why? Because he's color-blind. Now, his yellow Wilson is even LESS distinguishable from the nearest clump of grass!
Behold, Exhibit A:
Impressed? Watch this!
Consequently, our heroes were forced to move up to "close range," in order that Buster could "see" the ball.
My theory is that he never actually "sighted" Wilson; he merely plowed the ball forward in space-time with his ponderous schnozz, creating a gravitational void into which Wilson plummeted!
Anyway, no worries, we're doing just great down here on Devil's Island. Dad promised that we might be eligible for parole in a decade or so.
Love,
Bailey, the Previously-Anointed One
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