P.S. Lulu came again—this time, for last weekend’s family gathering. Scrawny looks aside, she fit right in with all the Baers. Good girl.
When the Song, Not Just the Groundhog, Got Cooked Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. Robert Frost, “The Road Not Taken.” So it goes. Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five. (Stock photo. For illustration purposes only.) On a tangible hillside in honest-to-goodness hilly Pittsburgh, actual man is robbed of his bush berries in broad unfiltered daylight. Culprit is furry, breathing. Actual man clobbers culprit and cooks culprit’s wet pink meat. Actual man makes quiche, perceptible steam puffing out. Man carries dish to party, yum yum. True story gets around. Man’s breathing sister in fields-and-cows Virginia tells some other breathing people. One says, her thoughts coming hot on the air, “That sounds like a country song: Kill a groundhog and put it in a quiche. Tell him to write a song.” Breathing sister does. Actual man does. Man jiggers words around in his pulpy brain and sends them to his machine, making it blink but no...

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