Cara and I have been watching “The Haunting of Hill House.” It’s not for the faint of the heart. In fact, if anyone says he isn’t afraid of the movie, that person is already dead inside and should be reported to either the Ghostbusters or Van Helsing.
The point is, it’s a creepy show and within one episode you’ll be checking under your bed, wishing you didn’t have a basement, and contemplating a move into a newly built tiny house where you can be 100% sure that no one has ever died and where ghosts couldn’t fit (and, besides, ghosts wouldn’t be caught dead in a tiny house because tiny houses are just a hideous expression of hipster privilege and virtue signaling and if you wanted to actually save money and downsize you could have just bought a trailer).
I may have to reconsider my mostly fond feelings about dogs. Yesterday, while sitting in the Starbucks on the corner of Court and Dean, a fellow patron tied up her Puggle to the bench and came inside to get a coffee. There was a bit of a line, so the little guy had to wait out in the cold longer than expected. He, being the nervous sort, began to yip. When master didn’t come running, he yipped a little more, then — being the nervous sort — deposited about five or six logs on the sidewalk while moving. Then — and here’s where you may want to avert your eyes — he proceeded to gobble up every last bit of it. If that’s not gross enough, consider that the owner was completely unaware of it and that at some point later in the day she probably let that dog lick her face.