pet cemetery.

Once again I find myself the proud owner of half a pound of frantically reproducing red wigglers. This is a repeat of the summer of 2010, when the Sprogs begged me to let them have a pet. I fended them off by permitting them to practice with worms. Fortunately for me those worms were cooked to a crisp one day when we left them in too sunny a corner of the yard. In such manner I bought myself another two years by observing that if the worms had been puppies, we probably would have been sent to jail. Logic = unassailable. They agreed they’d had a narrow escape.

But now there have been renewed pleas for a pet, and once again I have resorted to vermiculture, hopefully with similarly successful results. And even my frosty heart was touched as Callie festooned the Worm Hotel with peony petals in heady anticipation of the arrival of new occupants. That is so like her, and one of the countless reasons I love this girl. She’s a tender soul, much like her older brother, William, notwithstanding his many insults.

Me: I swear I must be autistic.

William: That’s pretty rude, Mom.

Me: Excuse moi? Are you implying that autistic people would be offended by the mere suggestion that I might be one of them?

William: I’m just saying that they might have feelings.

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