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Jao and Bill

We are prisoners in our own house.  George W. might have said that Jao possessed a weapon of mess destruction (George had a way with words).

It matters that it is Tucson on the last day of September, that it is sunny and warm, but even so, a face full of water is not an adult pleasure:  getting soaking wet is something two-year-olds revel in. We barricade ourselves inside, behind a glass door--a door, incidentally, that I had just cleaned of water spots yesterday:  silly me!--while Jao makes it rain from the sky, howling with the kind of pleasure trout find in a summer shower and a sky full of bugs.

"No, Jao!" is not an effective teaching method.  Threatening to make him wear his wet jeans seems not to scare him.  Socks that squish and leave puddles on the floor seem not-at-all discouraging.
I suppose that, all-in-all, we should be glad that the little hostage-holder takes regular showers, and that we do not have a sandbox.  Sandboxes are for cats, anyway, and our cat died and went to heaven, so we do not have a litter box, either.  We do have a water bill.  

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