Snow White is Getting Worried

My bats are here – a pallid bat nursing colony that since the beginning of time has parked itself under the beams of our porch to raise their young and decapitate every Jerusalem cricket in the universe, cavalierly discarding their carcasses onto the floor, a habit which never fails to just gross me right the fork out. And, despite the fact that S.B. built them a rocking new bat condo two years ago, they still insist on living under the porch and shitting all over my stucco.


Sigh. What am I gonna do. Serve them an eviction notice? Besides, they're really, really cute.

The hummers have showed up, too. Greedy little bastards. 'Nuff said. Except, I should own stock in Sugar Cane.

And the rabbits. Oy. Here's one I keep tossing our rotten apples to in an effort to guide its attention away from my marigolds, basil, and parsley. Look at the lil' fucker go. He had that thing gone in, like, 2.458 seconds. Then he moved on to the basil.


Where was Ivan, you ask?


But you know who I can't find anywhere? Madonna. See, last summer, she and her girlfriends were all:


But so far this year, the condo remains empty. Sniff. I miss my spiders.

Oh, and this thing? Hasn't changed a bit.


I poked at it the other day. Squishy. Double sniff. 'Twas a tomb in the end, most likely.