A further meditation on where my dog sh!ts

I can't figure out what's wrong with Bruno. He's got a hundred acre yard to do his business, but he insists on dropping his substantial turds within twenty feet of the front stoop.

I've been trying to train him. I take him out to the scene of the crime, while the evidence is still steaming fresh, and politely explain, as I'm shovelling up his shit and walking it to the hay field, that he has many options. Look pal, I tell him, the entire hundred acres is your toilet. Be a good boy and move the action.

He wags his stump and proceeds to drop another one five feet from the porch. 

And the Farm Manager thinks this is the smartest dog we've ever had.

Speaking of steaming fresh shit, I'm trying to work through my Sunday Star, and haven't even made it through the first section. I won't get to the International New York Times till Wednesday or Thursday, at this rate.

One of the issues that slowed me up was a three-plus pager by Ed Tubb and Kenyon Wallace about our never-ending covid crisis. Check out this sub-head; "Science of airborne risk is not absolute."

Not absolute? I thought the science was settled?!

WTF?

Oh my God... suddenly I'm wondering what else the experts might have got wrong!