When I was a child, Dr. Seuss was the name in early readers. He wasn't the only writer, nor always the best, but he was who you thought of first. Now the name is Mo Willems. His books are consistently funny, artistically appealing in their simplicity, and the pigeon kills with every appearance.
I sit here in September, typing with right hand only, because my left hand is resting, reassuringly, on Calder Alexander Eno, who is sitting in the chair pulled up next to mine. I'm doing this, because we are finally getting some rain, which will stop all the humans from hideous allergy attacks and sinus headaches, of which we are heartily sick, both figuratively and literally. Calder is an enormous jellicle cat, more than twenty pounds, long and tall, and he's probably the snuggliest cat I've ever met, but he is frightened of thunder: when it rumbles he growls and goes and hides under Natasha's bed. He has already spent half the day under there, so I'm trying to keep him calm and happy. Such a good cat. I go back to work October 3, so that's two weeks to catch up on one hundred seventy-eight book reviews. I can do this.