Folks will be happy to hear that Big Daddy Sly is doing a brisk business behind the sump pump, and that he greets me each morning by standing perfectly still and pretending that I can't see him. He agrees that pupal parasites are horrible and he says that "something should be done," though he himself doesn't pupate so he's not just being selfish.
Lately, Big Daddy has been hectoring me to help him start a tattoo parlour, which he wants to call "Glob." I refuse to loan him any money until he can prove that "Glob" is a catchy word among spiders.
The Horrorbug is motionless. I'm torn between throwing him out and chaining him to the wall.
Moving on to the mammals, you'll be sad to hear that Rudolph died a few weeks ago. He was hit by a car, which among urban squirrels is pretty much "natural causes." His biggest legacy came during the Oktoberfest parade, when hundreds of children walked halfway past his resting place before noticing him and then recoiling in disgust.
Rudolph is sadly missed by Randolph and Scamp, the other members of the "Nut-Killah Three," who no longer gather together on the opposite balcony to shriek at me. Rudolph was their leader and their inspiration, but at least the competition for eaves trough chestnuts has decreased.