Ligers and Groundhogs and Robins, Oh My

Well, the Ides of March have come and gone sine coniuratione, unless you count Emily's suspicions that a large mixed-breed cat, or liger if you will, has somehow wandered downstairs to her room and eaten her scissors. Now in my opinion, anyone who leaves sharp metal objects lying around when there's a liger on the loose deserves whatever happens. Nevertheless, she has the effrontery to suggest that I am somehow responsible for the situation. Et tu, Bruce? Am I my liger's keeper? Ligers do what they want.

In other news, I would like to point out that six weeks have now elapsed since Punxsatawney Phil (King of the Groundhogs, Father of all Marmota, seer of seers, prognosticator of prognosticators) saw his shadow in that fateful February morning, plunging the world into another month and a half of gloom and depression. Were this anywhere but Williamstown, we could now confidently predict the long-awaited arrival of spring, but as it is, it seems that even the robins are untrustworthy harbingers. (How many robins can you spot in this picture?)