I was dreaming of voles. All was set for a satiated afternoon of sleep, when a particularly big one emptied a bucket over my arse.
You can imagine the state of indignation in which I woke. No voles are going to give me the spa treatment! Halibut never bathes.
The truth is, however, even worse, as it usually is.
My cave is dripping. I expect the stalag mites and tites to be forming soon. Gooney is simply not absorbent enough to mop it up as it comes in, even though he is doing his best to supplement fur with his busy little tongue. (Gooney has always liked strange waters.)
It's the ice dams. Damn you, sun! Why did I ever call you back from your solsticial sleep?
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