The masked heeler just crawled up to sleep on the old loveseat beside this desk, giving me a sad look as she did so.

My first thought was to point out to her that this time I was here first, so she had no right to complain... under either human or dingo pack rules.

Then it occurred to me.

We're still listening to Rawlins Cross. The Celtic Instrumentals cd, on repeat. For what, six or seven days now?

Perhaps she's just tired of bagpipes.