Day 87

When it rains, the Emergency Command and Control Vehicle smells like something I can’t put my finger on. A tiny bit like wet dog, but also like cinnamon, which is weird. The man in the cap thinks there might be a leak at one of the roof seams, but Lady Bee says it’s just the humidity bringing memories of the former owners’ pooch out of the cushions. I trust her opinion over his on such things, besides which I don’t really want to spend a whole day on a ladder going over all the seams with caulk.

By the way, I forgot to mention I got invited to the Forest Sprites’ Saturday poker game. It turns out wood paneling Forest Sprites can drink a lot more than you’d expect, given their size. Also, they’re terrible at poker. They think high cards are always better. To a person, they bet on a single ace, but fold with two small pair. Texas Hold ‘Em isn’t really my game—I’ve been hoping for a while that the Hold ‘Em fad would run itself out—but if I can take the whole pot every week, I’ll play whatever they like. Granted, they bet with favors instead of money. I don’t know what it means to have a Forest Sprite owe you a favor, but I’m going to find out 71 times.

Which is approaching the number of emails from the workplace I’ve left unanswered. It’s just so hard to concentrate when you’re in a room with your friends.

Last thing: I’m changing my position on squirrels. In the past I’ve gone on record as being anti-squirrel. On reflection, that’s an unsupportable position, one I’m hereby retracting. They may be shifty, and their language may contain only curse words, but the yard’s big enough for all of us. Privately I’ve felt that way for some time. I just wanted to say so publicly.