spring, sprung

Whatever. The bleakness of the external landscape is wearisome, with all its Gorky Park hues of gray and brown, and I tire of hearing the oft-repeating refrain of "Is it Spring yet?" and all that blather. I've decided to hunker down with Mr. Squeaky-Crinkle, named, of course, after the famous essayist who focused entirely on granting suffrage for pets. Your words will always be remembered, Squeaky-Crinkle, in the hearts of vote-loving dogs everywhere. Nap time!