in Lake Woebegone, Garrison Keillor’s home town, but not so much so in Chicago.  We started with a gang of housebreakers who targeted our area.  They would come to the front door; if anyone answered, they’d say they were looking for yard work.  If no one answered, they’d hustle around to the back and break in through the second story windows–they even carried ladders with them.  We haven’t seen them for a few days and don’t know if they were caught, or simply cleaned out our street and have moved on.

Two days ago, while walking my dog in the park south of the Museum of Science and Industry I came on a man torturing a dog.  I called the University of Chicago security, since they usually come faster than city cops, but they said, out of their jurisdiction.  By the time I actually spoke to a Chicago dispatcher, the man realized I was on the phone and had packed his dog up and taken off.  I feel the kind of helpless rage you feel when you haven’t been brave enough to save a small creature in need–but I knew my golden retriever and I could not get close to a man with a tortured bull dog.  I’m trying to find a direct line to the animal abuse unit at the Chicago Police so I can put it on speed dial if, Gd forbid, there is a next time.

And finally, while walking home with my dog this morning I managed to fall and impale myself on my cellphone.  Somehow neither the phone nor I broke but I am badly bruised and will be pretty gimpy for a week or two.  Meanwhile, my dog is definitely not Lassie: she thought the sight of me on the ground was hysterically funny.  She snatched my hat from my head and began barking and lunging at me, daring me to try to catch her and get the hat back.  When passers=by stopped to help, Not-Lassie tried to entice them into tug of war with the hat.

And that’s all the news from Lake Michigan.  Don’t have a catchy paraphrase of Keillor’s tagline, but you get the point.