The dark days have returned. These will be the darkest yet.
One sign -- a dozen signs -- in the tally of a dozen mice, crushed by machine or shocked to death by the surprisingly venatory Gooney. They tried to escape the darkness outside, the sudden descent of this petrifying cold, by seeking asylum in My House.
Yes, it's a hundred years old and made of wood, with many mouse-friendly gaps. But I still boom in the basement. And little Mr G stalks around upstairs, deiseil, shouting for the return of the sun.
