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If a herd of ravenous centaurs descended on the city and went galloping through the streets, devouring small children and cats, Aunt Tabitha would calmly go about setting up barricades and manning crossbows as if she did it twice a week.
“No, Aunt Tabitha, I have discovered a dead body in our kitchen!” was what I meant to say. What came out was something more along the lines of “Aunt Body! There’s a Tabitha—the kitchen—dead, she’s dead—I—come quick—she’s dead!”
Attack is not a command I’ve ever given to bread before, but if those rats last winter were any indication, Bob knew exactly what to do.
On the run for my life and fretting over a sourdough starter. It could only happen to me.
When you spend most of your time with a dead horse, you learn to respect other people’s weird pets.
You’d think he’d never seen anybody ride bread before.
If you have never tried to make conversation with a monarch, over the hog-tied body of an evil wizard, with a dead man in the next room, it is not easy.
