Look at Sparky, little Mr. Innocent.
For the past few months, Sparky seemed to have outgrown his stash weasel waysâ€”then I left over Labor Day weekend. When I headed next door to pay the little girls who look after my cats while I’m gone, their mother handed me a very bedraggled-looking ball of sock yarn.
And where did this sock yarn come from?
Well, they found it in their backyard wrapped several times around the girls’ play structure, then trailing back over some rosemary bushes, across the fence that separates our yards, over a wood pile, and through my bathroom window, ending in a frazzled mess in my bathtub.
My Sparkleberry, he never does things by halves.
And, as he would point out, he never said he wanted any pie in the first place.