Their tummies say, "It's suppertime." Their eyes say, "It's getting dark. It's suppertime." Their humans say, "It's only 5 o'clock. It's not suppertime." Their tiny little brains reply, "Then why are you in the kitchen messing with stuff that smells like food?" Their Bunny says, "I'm always in the kitchen messing with food, at least when I'm not taking a nap." They say "Gimme some. NOW." Bunny's feet say "Scoot." And no supper is forthcoming. And you can't reason with them that it's only once a year because they don't remember for one and for two they find no comfort in that.
I woke up at 7:00 today, only it was really 6:00, and I celebrated being up by watching football. Viola--Donkeys were live online at 6:30 a.m., so I had coffee and sleepy beagles and yarn and I watched football in bed. The league decided to have some 6:30 12:30 matches on Sundays, probably for television purposes, but some Italians are predictably decrying the intrusion of crass popular culture into the sacrosanct rituals of mass and Sunday dinner with the family. This is a little hard for me to understand as a secular American, because everyone knows that it's church and family that encroaches on television, not the other way around. Anyhoo, you can't expect the die-hard fans ("ultras") to skip the match because of church and family, so they go, but they don't like it. A few weeks ago, I can't remember which match, but the ultras went to the game, but protested: By bringing sandwiches to the match. And eating them.
