Dear Wigleaf,

Sunday brunch at my parents' house—always a wacky time. My schizophrenic mother is telling my wife how she used to date the Unabomber in college. My wife always tries to reason with her... Haven't you always lived in Canada? Didn't you drop out of high school and get married at eighteen? My father slips a bowl of pistachios in my mother's lap to keep her occupied.

Their blind Cocker Spaniel, Captain, starts barking at nothing in the sunroom. My wife is trying to reason with him too.

"Look! There's nothing out there, Captain." She's pointing his broken eyes at the empty backyard, but he's still going. My father slips a pair of headphones on. They aren't connected to anything, but he looks happy now. A pistachio shell just smacked me on the chin. My mother's laughing.

"Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!" she's the best.

Captain's still screaming and has a couple of the neighbourhood dogs worked up now too. The German Shepherd next door is banging on the fence and the Husky across the back lane is howling at the sky. My wife looks back at me, shaking her head at the chaos. My father is whistling a cheery tune while powdering some French toast. My mother grabs my arm and whispers to me through a mouthful of pistachios.

"The Unabomber loved dogs."

Take care,

Phil