I take it back. Two of my dogs escaped--yet again--since my earlier post. The third, Boxer Zach, jumped out a window I did not think he could reach and followed me when I headed downtown to get them, so I had to walk him back home and then pray he wouldn't wreck the place when I left again. Luckily, the owner of the bar, a friend of mine, had captured my two old ones by the time I got to the main drag, so at least I didn't have to search for them. I got them home, fed them and the other--my cats were, of course, nowhere to be found, which is worrying in itself--and then had to go out in the heat of the afternoon to plug the hole through which the two escapees had absconded. I am now tired, dirty, sweaty, and grumpy and very much wish the show were on tonight. Tom's dulcet tones would have soothed me, and the chat would have further smoothed the feathers ruffled by the day's tribulations.
Let that be a lesson to me: never be complacent about TBS. Chaos ensues.
