Day of the living dead

This day was super surreal -- it was like being on a movie set, with actors who had just learned their lines and are still a bit tentative trying them out. Everyone is rattled and unable to sustain their focus.
Somehow the paper keeps coming out every day. A reader wrote to tell us of our "outrageous ignorance" at using the word "morays" where we should have had "mores." Well, now, we've got signs aplenty of outrageous ignorance, but that's not one of them. That's just a sign of too few people trying to do too many things.
At the end of the day, Joe and I went to The Monti at Golden Belt. Good stuff, that storytelling gig. Back in May, I told a story about our dog, Peyton. She's a foster dog. When we first got her, the very first thing she did was run away. For four days, in the wilds of Cary. It's a good story, but it's 12 minutes long and, well -- long story short, since we found her again, she pretty much stays under the bed.
Which is why I was surprised when I opened the front door when we returned home, and she bolted out. I stopped her in her tracks and she ran back in.
Shortly thereafter, we found the source of her angst. Poor thing was home alone in the house when this happened:

here's the view from the inside:

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