The moors are foggy this morning.   The fog has rolled in to coat the land with droplets of pre-Halloween doom.  Something soppy this way comes. The wet leaves drop from the huge tree in my backyard, calling softly, "We'll be a bitch to rake this weekend if it doesn't stop raining." 

The vet called yesterday.  Sybil's thyroid levels are back to normal.  Hurrah!  She's not a fan of the daily pills, but I explained to her they are an important part of her holistic recovery program (and they greatly enhance her breathing exercises).  She's so excited about the whole thing she's currently passed out on the futon.

In other news, the little angel is experimenting with a painting career.  The Emerald City has launched an ambitious program to ruin every piece of the little angel's Ebay wardrobe before the first snowfall. Each day, she paints with something a little more toxic and a little harder to remove.  First it was pudding (she ate more than she painted with), then it was watercolors and now it is some sort of tempura conconction that is guaranteed to ruin the pair of paints she came home in yesterday.  Do they use the painting shirt I sent along?  No, they laugh at the painting shirt. They spit on its fibers.  There will be no shielding of the cute clothing.  Tra la!

I was really grumpy about the ruination of clothing yesterday when I picked the little angel up and saw blue and yellow completing covering her pants, shoes and cute little lavender peasant top.  I thought, surely other daycares do not release their children in such states?  But then, I remembered Oz, and told myself sternly that if dirty is the worst thing she gets at daycare, I ought to count my blessings.

And buy uglier clothes.