A lovely evening on the porch swing before the onset of a week's worth of triple-digit heat. I called my father (it was his birthday) and opened a treasure trove of real mail: an invitation to a wedding in Italy (neither person is Italian), a letter from my sister full of gossip and yet more clippings of Thomas Kinkade shit from the Sunday supplements, and a letter from Nisou with photographs of Emlet and Siblet.
After that I read The Name of the Rose on the porch swing for a while, until Blake very obviously wanted tactile companionship. After a day spent in his cage, an evening on the porch swing in his cage isn't too much of a treat. I had just brought him inside and opened his door when Scarf came by with her dog. We spoke of heat, pregnancy, and Umberto Eco, while the dog nosed about and Blake shrieked from within. Poor Swee' B.