Well, no sign of Alvin. Tonight I unlocked the door, crept in, almost afraid of blood and guts. No. Not a thing. I’m afraid of stepping on, or touching something cold and stiff. Or even worse, hot and stiff, ready to explode.
George W isn’t saying a word. Maggie said he did taunt her, telling her she could be next, chalk outline and all.
(I wish it had been a little mouse instead. Alvin hurts me. But truthfully, even though I despise mice, I can't bear to see them taken out. The curse of a soft heart. (I do think George was proud to lay this in the living area, although he slapped Alvin around quiet a bit, thus me getting up to see what the heck...George Corleone, Mafia cat.)
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