If you have poo, fling it now.

Us whippet owners provide crack for our dogs.  There I said it.  No coming back from it. We have a secret knock, handshake and meetings. We compare, confer and consult. "How big?" "Where do you get yours?" "What time did we crash the site?" "Dear such and such vendor, we are sorry we crashed your site, fork over the on special items now!" "Do you leave the tube in or not?" It arrived nonchalantly, in a plain box. Humphrey was on the box looking for his first fix. He pawed it out of the box because my opposable thumbs were apparently too slow for him. How he knew it was one having never seen one before, well, his skeletal DNA may explain a lot. As soon as it was free from the box he burrowed into to it with such force, quite frankly it was violent. Johnny Depp and I suffered the evil eye for several long minutes having lapsed as Whippet owners. See contract, document 43.8, paragraph C. Humphrey's face was screaming:

I've been 32 days without power in a Canadian winter. I've been 70 days in a flood, the likes of which had never been seen. I've never done both at the same time. (Okay half a day during the flood, but I blacked out.) I've done neither in a city environment. No canoes, no alternative heat, no way to cook or save food? Millions of people? They all must have clicked into survival mode. Survival mode sounds scary, but when one has no choice, you either deal or breakdown. I liked scattering both throughout the hours, day and night. No sense being even keeled. The media already talking about the aftermath and how they are going to rebuild. Yeah, Sandy has passed, but the present moment for those hip deep in water, take it from me, don't need talk about all the work. They definitely don't need disaster tourism. We may want to see those images to be informed and up to date, but from inside it feels invasive when the umpteenth reporter power boats up your