Ever since we lost our best buddy last summer, my sister-in-law has been sending us whatever shots of the dog she turns up in her vast files. (She’s a photographer.) This one came to Kate in her Valentine’s Day card. I think she’s trying to kill me:
Nineteen ninety-nine. What a year. Our girl was out of diapers, the economy was strong, a Democrat was president and hardly anyone had heard of al-Qaeda.
And look at that face. (Whichever face you like.)
Not much this morning, but maybe later. Talk amongst yourselves, eh?