Happiness is a Truffle/Wine Pairing

I wish I could say that the animals have miracuously stopped acting like the pigs they are, but that is not the case.

Instead, I have just learned to live with it. I do plan on changing the cat litter yet again, as I'm not impressed with this pine shaving business. The walnut stuff was a bust, the corn stuff was the “Worst Cat Litter” ever, and I hate clay litter. I'm not sure what to try next.

I'm about to just throw potty pads everywhere and say, "Have at it."

This Sunday I spent two hours vacuuming, mopping the floors, sanitizing the litter boxes with bleach, and cleaning the bathroom.

It took Percy two seconds to track litter everywhere, and Puckett to promptly barf up her entire dinner. And not on the tile floor either. Nope, she managed to place it precisely on the shoe rug which I now have to wash.

I retired to the couch with wine and an episode of Fuller House.

I choose to focus on happier things than the perpetual grossness of my pets.

I have taken to spinning new truffle recipes and pairing them with wines. I've always had an interest in chocolate making and I've been told that my basic bittersweet truffles are better than Godiva.

I have always dreamed of opening a chocolate shop.

And and I'm always telling my friends who want to open an Etsy business or work on art or publish that novel (not me, someone else!), there is no time like the present. It will never be a good time to completely dismantle your life with a new business or idea. There is always something else going on, life will always get in the way.

So you might as well start now.

Yes, I realize I should take my own advice and finish that stupid novel.

I'm working on it,

Meanwhile I'm working on my other dream: Truffle making.

So far, I have branched out to three different flavors. My classic semisweet chocolate truffles, milk chocolate almond truffles, and what has now become my favorite: bittersweet chocolate truffles with a pinch of chili pepper.

Chocolate and chili pepper are the new “it thing” in chocolate and everyone is doing it. A lot of people don't like it, and to tell the truth, I don't like it much either. I discovered it's all in the moderation. I don't put so much into my truffles that one can actually feel the bite (though I can do that if that's your cup of tea). I put just enough that you get this zing and you wonder if I didn't put booze in the truffles.

I do that too.

But never mind what or how much, that's my secret.

Recently I started thinking, "Hmmmm, I wonder what would happen if I paired my truffles with wine?"

Well, let me tell you, it's a party in your mouth.

The classic semisweet truffles pair well with a Pinot Noir or a Petit Syrah (which happens to be my favorite wine next to Rioja, and it was the first wine I ever took a chance on). But truth be told, the semisweet truffles will pair well with anything. They need no dressing up or down, and for traditionalists, they are the best truffles out there. The bolder, darker reds, ones with more tannins, might overpower them, so I like them best with the Dark Horse Pinot Noir which is light, slightly fruity, and like silk going down.

The milk chocolate truffles do best with a white wine. The one I tried was a Semillon, which is a dryer white wine, not as much a favorite of mine as a Viognier, but still quite tasty. I'm not into sweeter wines like Moscato or Resilings. Even Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc can be too sweet, though I'll drink Sauvignons in a pinch. The Semillon is perfect, and it complements the sweetness of the milk chocolate exceptionally well. I added amaretto to the ganache and rolled the things in almond flour, giving them a very mild nutty flavor. Milk chocolate will pair well with Chardonnay or Reisling if sweeter is your bag, and if you like your wines sweet. However, if you like your wines sweet, but your chocolate a little more bitter, the classic semisweet truffle will work too.

I tried the bittersweet truffle with a pinch of chili pepper with several wines. Bittersweet chocolate is a bit harder to work with than semisweet chocolate. It's stiffer and doesn't form as well, so the truffles looked angular and craggy rather than smooth balls like the milk and the semisweet. I also added a splash of Godiva chocolate liquer that played off the chili pepper, creating a dark devil of a truffle that I actually liked better than my classic truffles.

I paired the bittersweet truffle first with the Semillon, and while they pair well as the truffles are not very sweet and the Semillon is a crisp, dry wine, I was not in love with the pairing. I tried the Pinot next and while it worked, the marriage was a little boring, like a comfortable old pair of sweats. I then tried it with my favorite Rioja Bordon. A bold, dark, acidic wine, the Rioja complemented well, but what worked best was a Zinfandel. The flavor of the Zin finished the richness of the truffle so well, I ate two or three. Maybe four.

I'm not enough of a wine nerd to be able to tell too much difference between a Rioja and a Zin. Much as I can tell, the Rioja is oaky while the Zin is zesty, almost peppery. 

I think that's why the Zin worked so well with the bittersweet truffles. The pepperiness of the wine complements the tiny pinch of chili pepper in the super dark chocolate and I made myself sick on the richness of both.

It was a happy sick.

I have several other recipes in mind to try, but one I'm struggling with is the white chocolate truffle. I've made two batches of white chocolate ganache and made a mess of both of them. The first was too soft and I could not form it into anything. I ended up with white cow patties spread out on the cookie sheet. The second batch I left in the refrigerator too long. It got too hard, and when I tried to warm it up a little to soften it, I ended up with a browned, vanilla-smelling mess in the saucepan.

Turns out I can do anything with cocoa-ed chocolate. When it comes to white, it's a little trickier. The magic is all in the cocoa, I suppose.

I shall not be deterred however. I promised a friend a root beer float flavored truffle, and I have an idea of how to make it work. I just need to perfect the white chocolate ganache. The flavorings are no problem.

I highly suspect that a basic white chocolate truffle will pair well with a Moscato or Chardonnay. A root beer float truffle? Well, I don't know. I'm thinking a Gewurztraminer. Or, if we're really getting wild, a Petit Syrah as they can have notes of licorice.

I can't wait to find out.

The Twilight Zone of Geriatric Pets

It was inevitable.

I now share my house with geriatric pets, and they are not shy about letting their oldness get the best of all of us.

Maybe it's not something people think about when they adopt pets, all young and full of energy with zero health problems. I know, rationally, that eventually animals will age, just as I will age, and they will develop problems as they age.

One is just never prepared for it when it finally happens, even if when it's expected.

For almost ten years I have shared my house with Tess, Percy, Puckett, and Willow, in that order. I've had Tess the longest. Percy came quickly after her, so they are close to the same age. Puckett was older when I adopted her.

And now that I've had them almost a decade, they have all entered the twilight zone of elderly animals.

Just like elderly people, they develop health issues. They aren't as energetic as they used to be, they have digestive issues and weight gain, their fur isn't as shiny and thick as it once was. I think the cats at least are in the early stages of dementia since they can't seem to remember when they ate last even if it was just five minutes ago, and Tess' eyesight is definitely going.

Plus Tess is starting to smell like "old dog." German shepherds, when bathed regularly, do not have the natural "doggy odor" that many other breeds are cursed with. Hounds and bully breeds seem to suffer the most from "doggy smell." And I'm not a huge fan of "doggy smell," which is one reason German shepherds have always been my top breed of choice.

There is no denying that Tess smells. She gets bathed. She also spends a lot of time outdoors. That never used to contribute to her smell when she was younger, but it does now. She smells like "old dog," and she has super bad doggy breath despite the fact that she gets her teeth cleaned once a year.

The cats smell too. Percy farts like a horse, has the nastiest diarrhea that just gets worse as he ages thanks to his Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and the fact that he will eat whatever presents itself to him and moves. It doesn't even have to move. The other day he was chewing on plastic just because it was there. He also tried to gnaw on one of my rosebush stems, because, well thorns feel good in the mouth.

Willow has the nastiest smelling poop, and she's the only one who can't be considered geriatric yet. I think she's about seven years old. She just acts like the others because she's always been an emulator and has no mind of her own. I think she just doesn't want to feel left out.

Puckett's old age is noticeable as she has given up trying to jump up on the bed and will literally haul herself up by her front claws, ripping up the bed sheets and blankets in the process. She gets constant mats in her fur from lack of grooming. Come to think of it, so does Willow. Declining hygiene is also a sign of old age. Where they once obsessed over licking themselves and each other clean, they no longer seem to care. Percy still grooms, but he too doesn't seem to have as much enthusiasm for it.

The loss of control of bodily functions is the biggest sign of the end of their lives approaching. My carpet is absolutely ruined. Tess has peed on the bedroom carpet enough times now that there is nothing left to do but throw it out. Puckett yaks up her breakfast and/or dinner every other day, and it's usually on the carpet. Percy can't seem to get everything in the litter box when he's using it, so he tracks his business across the floor, and inevitably ends up on the carpet. Willow can't seem to get her whole, and I might add, tiny butt into the litter box so she always manages to pee over the edge. That's a lovely surprise in the morning when I grab the box to clean it and get a handful of cat pee.

I realized the other day just where I was at in the life cycle of pets when I stood in the Petco and stared at an aisle full of "How to keep your pet from soiling your house" products. Among them, doggy diapers, pet wipes, and potty pads. I know these are marketed for other reasons - potty pads for housebreaking puppies and doggy diapers for females in heat - but my dog is incontinent and she has reached the point where she just doesn't bother holding her bladder anymore.

You know you've reached doggy old age when you are contemplating diapers for your dog, and giving up on housetraining altogether. You buy potty pads just to save the carpet. Plus, I think the cats might enjoy potty pads rather than trying to drag their old butts into the litter boxes. That obviously seems to be too much work.

My solution has been to buy a doggy gate and just keep Tess out of the bedroom. That way, if she messes on the floor during the night, she'll do it on the kitchen floor that is tile and easy to clean up.

I have to keep the gate braced in the doorway slightly elevated so the cats can crawl underneath it, as they no longer leap or climb over it. Too old or too lazy. Or maybe a combination of both, but you should see the shitty look they shoot me when I put the gate up, and they actually have to make some effort into getting into the bedroom.

Incidentally, they don't want to go into the bedroom until I've put up the gate. Then they absolutely have to be in there, and even crawling under the gate seems to be beneath their dignity.

Like, "How DARE you barricade this otherwise open doorway for me to use whenever I want??"

Just breaks my heart to watch it, really. Those were the days when even Puckett would leap over the gate and land with an audible thump on the other side. She wasn't very graceful about it, but she did it and it kept her active and fit.

Well, somewhat fit.

Now she just sleeps.

Tess still runs up and down the stairs of the deck, but she mostly just likes to sleep on the deck as well.

Winter will be hard with everyone once again cooped up and even less space to roam now that the dog is banned from all things carpet.

The worst thing about the animals getting older is my lack of patience. I tell myself everyday, they are old, they can't help it, it's only going to get worse, but then I stare down the barrel of the gun of litter scattered everywhere, piles of the most vile-smelling poop I've ever experienced deposited five times a day, and puddles of pee and puke, and sadly, I tend to lose my mind. I know I should be more patient, and I don't yell at them for it. Yelling at Tess for peeing on the floor at night because she can't hold it, or yelling at Puckett for throwing up her breakfast because her stomach can't handle too much food at once will only make them more miserable. They are animals. They don't understand.

But I do lock myself in my bedroom and scream silently into a pillow. Or I cuss to myself as I clean out the litter boxes and sweep the floor for the tenth time that day. This of course upsets the animals anyway. They don't know why I'm cussing at myself, they just know I'm agitated about something, and they disappear.

My entire life outside of work is cleaning up animal messes.

Plus Tess is almost offended at having been banned from the bedroom. She has a huge soft doggy bed in the hallway just outside the door, but I get it. She thinks she's being punished. I'm just tired of smelling dog urine in my bedroom, so out of the bedroom is where she must stay.

It's the most awful limbo. I don't want my pets to die, of course. I also don't want to keep cleaning up mess after mess after mess and I know, horrifically, that the only light at the end of that tunnel is the eventual inevitable death of my pets.

This is the worst part of pet ownership. It's the price we pay for wanting to share our homes with these furry, happy creatures that have a lifespan one tenth of ours. If we are devoted pet lovers, we can go through this awful cycle many times in our own lives. And every time we promise ourselves, never again. After this lot, no more dogs, no more cats, not even a friggin hamster! I can't do this again!

And then six months after they are gone, or maybe a year, we find ourselves at the animal shelter and yet another pair of big sad brown eyes gets our attention, and we get sucked in all over again.

And the cycle begins again.

 Percy clearly does not have enough toys to play with so he has to actually force himself into the toy box.

Warts and All

Last week it took five seconds for a lady to make me feel completely inadequate and bad about myself.

It was nothing she did on purpose. I didn't even know her. She didn't even know I was alive as her back was to me. She flitted about the restaurant where I was having drinks and dinner at 5 PM with my friends because we are senior citizens.

The gal wore a tight little black dress that accentuated all her curves and fit her as if it had been painted on her. She wore spiked black heels, and had long, smooth, black hair - the kind of hair one can only get in a blowout at a salon, or if one happens to be magically-inclined.

Maybe she had a coven.

No one can look that good in small town Wyoming and be a normal human being. I thought maybe she was a movie star or something, but she kept going into the kitchen of the restaurant, so she either knew someone back there, or she worked at the restaurant.

Worked as what, I don't know. She was not a cook or a waitperson, and I don't think she was the hostess.

Meanwhile, I felt a little ridiculous in my washed out jeans, black flats, flat hair, and "Books are good for you" T-shirt.

This girl was probably fifteen years younger than me, and I was the one who looked like a teenager or a college student. Believe me, that made me feel even more inadequate. Not only did she look better, she was also younger, which is the only thing we still revere in this country.

Now I know it's silly to compare myself to a complete stranger, but with society's obsession of youth and effortless beauty, sometimes it's hard not to beat oneself up about the fact that they cannot and will never measure up.

Since I know I'll never measure up, I think I might have just given up. I used to take some care into getting ready to go out. Now it's almost like it's too much work. I don't know if that's a good thing because I no longer have the energy to be completely superficial, or if it's a bad thing because I just don't bother to try anymore.

Not that I could look like this girl. Forget that. Few people look like her. But, you know, I could make some effort.

I've been feeling really inadequate lately. And ungrateful. And like I'm from another planet. Or else I'm the last surviving member of the human race and everyone else here is from another planet. I'm sure everyone feels that way (I've read countless books on the matter), but it's still a lonely feeling. While you know everyone else feels this way and that you are not alone, you still feel really alone.

I've gotten really good at letting other people make me feel bad about myself. I have a coworker who refuses to make eye contact or basically even acknowledge my presence, and that makes me feel bad. Like, I'm so beneath her, and she makes it so obvious that I'm beginning to believe it myself. Like the lady at the restaurant, she is striking and stands out. People notice her. It's up to her whether we are worthy to be noticed in return and clearly I am not.

A look, a harsh word, a negative comment in my direction, they all magnify my feelings of inadequacy. I'm not sure why. It used to be that I had run out of energy to give a fuck. Now I've just run out of energy to make any sort of effort, and rather than make an effort, I just feel bad.

I don't understand. I've gotten everything I've ever wanted. I'm a published author, I have the German shepherd of my dreams, I have my black cat, I have a great boyfriend who is nice to me and loves me, and I work at a library where I love doing my job (if I can't write for a living, then ordering books and cataloging them all day long is the next best thing).

The problem with getting everything you want, the problem that no one ever tells you when they tell you can have whatever you want, is that it will never look like the way you thought it should. I'm a published author, but I've had a few articles published in the local paper and one story in Chicken Soup for the Soul. Along with those are three times as many rejections of other stories I've written, and I'm losing my will to write anything else. I have a great boyfriend who loves me, but he lives two hours away. So I only get to see him once a week.

Yes, I have a German shepherd and a black cat, but the shepherd is a neurotic basket case and the cat really should be used for biological warfare. Tess has peed on the floor twice this week, and Percy made such a mess in all four litter boxes, it took me an hour to clean this morning.

And while I love my job at the library, there is the constant threat of budget cuts, no raise, no way to move up, and one person who makes me feel inadequate and unworthy (yes, I realize that's on me and not her fault, but still).

Then there are the things you thought you wanted and you realize how thrilled you are that you never got them. Like a horse. Or a cowboy. I used to want a horse in the worst way. After playing nursemaid to four codependent animals who cost roughly the same as the down payment to a house, I'm relieved I don't have a horse. I don't want one anymore either.

That kind of makes me sad, though. I used to dream of owning horses and how amazing it would be.

It must be the universe's way of keeping things in balance. That way you never get too full of yourself or too big for your britches.

Or maybe it's just a mindset. If you feel inadequate you will be inadequate. It's up to you to look in the mirror and tell yourself "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me."

Except that most days I don't feel good enough, I'm definitely not smart enough, and I'm really beginning to question if people like me at all. I feel very unlikable much of the time, and I suspect that's my own fault.

Probably because I just don't make the effort I used to.

There are days I want to just run screaming from the library, never to return.

There are days I want to just tell anyone off who is being rude.

Remember that episode of Wings when cool, calm, responsible Joe finally had enough, told everyone off, mounted a motorcycle, and just took off?

I feel like that a lot.

Coping mechanisms no longer work. I write, but I've grown to hate it, and yet, like the sexy bad boyfriend, I can't break up with writing. I'm miserable if I don't write everyday. I'm miserable when I do.

I am crippled by my inability to look away from a train wreck, and that train wreck is my writing career.

Other coping mechanisms include baking, which has lost its joy since I can't eat anything I bake and I'm tired of bringing it to work. I suspect my coworkers may be tired of it too. The last few cakes didn't get completely eaten so either everyone is on a diet, or else I'm not as good as I thought I was.

Chocolate used to help. So did making chocolate. And wine. I've discovered it's actually not that hard to get sick of chocolate and wine. A couple of pieces of chocolate, one or two glasses of wine, and it's like, okay, totally over that.

And it's REALLY easy to get sick of 72 or 80% cacao dark chocolate. The latter is sometimes like eating cardboard.

Again, you can have everything you want. Just don't expect it to look like how you thought. I can have all the chocolate I want. I just can't have all the milk chocolate I want.

I can, however, have all the wine I want, because usually all the wine I want is a glass or two on the weekends. I usually don't want more.

But I digress.

I suppose we just have to keep on keeping on, but I admit my give a damn is broken.

Meanwhile, yet another beauty waltzed by me while writing this piece, all tight jeans, stylish cowgirl shirt, and blonde hair. What a knockout.

The universe is laughing at me now. Once again I feel inadequate. And the only thing I've managed to write is a blog piece that is nothing but complaining, because well, I'm just whiny that way.

And the radio is playing Journey. Nothing forces one's inadequacy home like Journey, probably because they were big when I was in high school, and I was really inadequate then.

The secret then is not The Secret by Ronda Byrne, all Law of Attraction and positive thinking and the universe will give you what you want. The secret - the real one - is embracing your inadequacies. Because you will always be inadequate to someone, but probably mostly to yourself. You can read all the books you want about accepting yourself and loving yourself, but maybe the best thing to do is to accept the fact that you are inadequate and that's okay.

I will always fall a little bit short. My animals think I could do better, my father thinks I should make more money, my boyfriend thinks I should just move in with him, my friends think I should quit whining. The library doesn't think I should be doing three jobs, I should be doing four. What they don't understand is that they are all 100% right and I agree with them. I can do better, I should make more money, I should try harder, I should quit whining. I should be able to keep four balls in the air without dropping one.

Sometimes it's all I can do just to get through the day. Everyone feels like that. We just need to learn to accept it. Warts and all.

 

At least I can grow pretty things!

Welcome to the Circus

My mornings have become a three-ring circus.

Maybe a five-ring.

I have animals doing tricks for food, and freakishly strange animals showing up to entertain anybody who happens to be visiting.

My morning begins with yowling. Percy starts the festivities by squalling, yowling, and screeching while running through the house. Meanwhile someone else is downstairs going crazy in the litter box. Usually it's Puckett because Willow reserves her litter box behavior for the small one in the cage on the fourth landing. Any other time she'll use the litter boxes downstairs. At night and in the morning she uses the one on the fourth landing.

No doubt because it's closest to my bedroom and thus, I can hear her better.

Once Puckett is done downstairs (and believe me, it doesn't matter where they use the box, I can hear them just fine), Willow or Percy or both will proceed to use the litter box. Like Willow, Percy will always use the one downstairs except in the mornings, when he uses the one underneath the cage because, most likely, it is also closest to my bedroom.

After litter box activity, there is more yowling. Percy races through the house, and Willow sacks out on the floor at the foot of the bed and attacks the blankets hanging off the mattress.

Tess paces around, first from bedroom to downstairs to the kitchen, then back upstairs and into the bedroom. Then she'll go to her bed which is just outside the bedroom. Then back into the bedroom.

Sometimes there's a bit of whining. Usually because Percy is annoying her. If I ignore his yowling he starts bothering Tess.

So after the litter box scratching, the yowling, and the thundering of cat paws throughout the house, all I hear is "click click click" as Tess paces.

Then Puckett comes into the bedroom and sits next to the bed, staring up at me with her big eyeballs. She doesn't make any noise, just stares.

Finally, I get up because I can't take it anymore. I let Tess outside. She explodes down the stairs of the deck either to do her business or to lap up the entire bucket of water outside.

Keep in mind I do not dehydrate my dog on purpose. She can't drink water after 9 PM because then she pees on the floor. She's either too polite or too lazy to ask to be let outside when she has to pee.

I also don't dehydrate my cats on purpose, or even at all. They have a huge water bowl in the living room they have access to all night long.

Upon getting out of bed, I take a shower and Percy immediately is on the ledge of the bathtub lapping the water drops that spray from the showerhead. So I play with him a little. I move aside and the water hits him. He screams - and I do mean SCREAMS - at me, jumps down and takes off like a shot. A second later he's back on the tub, lapping away. This time I'll aim the shower head right at him. Bullseye, one drenched cat.

This time he screeches the equivalent of a banshee threatening to end a life. The devil himself as taken over my cat's body and turned him into a fluffy demon.

He takes off like a shot once again. Then he sits by the door and grooms himself.

He comes back. I flick water at him with my fingers.

MRAOWWWWW!

Thump. Scurrying as he races out the door.

This goes on until the shower is over. I get out, dry myself off, and go into the other room to get dressed and make the bed.

Almost immediately Willow streaks into the bathroom like someone shot her from a cannon, launches herself into the bathtub, and starts lapping away at the drain like she is dying of thirst.

There is soap in that water. And hair (mine and the cats' as they have taken to playing in the tub). She has a bowl of clean water downstairs. She doesn't care, she'd rather drink drainwater.

Okay, then.

I pull the curtain aside, she looks up at me with huge eyes like she's been caught stealing the Mona Lisa, and leaps out of the tub, streaking from the bathroom.

As soon as I leave the bathroom she's back in there.

As soon as I walk into the bathroom she jumps out of the tub and thunders away like the devil is after her.

The devil is after her and has possessed Percy.

Where is Puckett, you ask? Either using the box again once she's eaten or else yakking what she has just eaten all over the floor.

Tess is outside, under the deck, ignoring everyone because she's pretty sure we've all lost our minds.

Then it's time for codependent breakfast.

I feed them after I've gotten dressed and made the bed. They each eat a few pieces of food, then leave to go do their crazy stuff - Puckett in the box, Willow in the bathtub. Percy actually calms down after eating and lays in the sun for awhile. He will eventually use the box too, though.

I go about my own business, but every time I set foot in the kitchen they are all right there again, eating because clearly food cannot be consumed unless I am there to supervise.

Right before I leave for work I pick up all the bowls (my cats each eat something different and they also don't need to be hogging out all day, that just encourages more pooping and they do enough of that). As I put my shoes on and pull my keys out of my purse, they all magically appear and start yowling for food again. They obviously haven't eaten for hours, maybe days, and they let me know it as I walk out the door.

Amazingly they are all still alive when I come home at lunch to feed them again.

One morning last week I left my house to a chorus of chirping and meowing only to find this hanging out on my walkway, right outside my front door:

Let the freak show begin.

He was oddly grasshopper-shaped which made me wonder if he hadn't just consumed one.

That's fitting because when I got home from work later that day, I pulled a few carrots, neglected to check them before bringing them into the house, and had to contend with a grasshopper hopping around my kitchen. I caught him and tossed him into the front garden where that monstrosity above happens to live.

At least I assume he lives there as I had to prod him off the walkway that morning just so I could get to my car. I wasn't about to step on him and ruin my shoes (and really, why? Spiders are people too), and I definitely wasn't going to walk past him. He might have decided I was his next meal. I used a stick to nudge him off the cement and at first he was quite sluggish about it. I guess he was taking a nap.

What a stupid place for a nap. Any bird could have come down and snapped him up.

I know what you're thinking:  I should have just let it.

I finally managed to prod him off the cement and he scurried into the garden, where the rosebush lives. I just hope he doesn't end up in the house. He was too big to kill (can you imagine the mess he'd make on the carpet?), and too big to trap. Even I won't brave dropping a glass over something that size. I'd just move. Grab the pets and leave the furniture for the spider.

It occurred to me that the freakishly large spider is my own fault. He's probably one of the critters I trapped and put outside years ago, and that's only allowed him to grow to the size of Montana.

God, I hope he hasn't eaten Fred and Winifred. Or any of my other jumpers. My boss made the comment that if I hear a knock at the door and there is nobody there when I open it, I should probably just run for my life.

Welcome to the circus.