I went out onto the back deck to try to get the beagle out--a failed attempt, he hates wet grass. For a supposed hunting breed, with the brain power of a warm ice cube, Gir can be a real prima donna. But as I was standing out there, despite my rather snurfly sinuses, I smelled leaves being burned somewhere in the distance. The smell went into my brain, and clicked all the little relays over, and I went in and put on fuzzy socks.
The calendar had said so, but now it's really true.