I'm jealous of my cosmopolitan trousers
I bought a pair of trousers recently, at a consignment shop. I like used clothing. It's cheap, like me.

These pants, which are one of the three pairs which currently fit my fat, and mysteriously-expanding-like-a-mushroom ass, are khaki, with wee zipper pockets at the hips.

I've worn them several times, and even washed them twice, once after I bought them and once after I spilled something on them the first time I wore them. I had not, until yesterday, used the zipper pockets.

Yesterday, though, I wanted to bring some change to work for coffee. "These pants have pockets somewhere, don't they?" I thought, feeling around. "Are they sewn shut? No, zippers!" I unzipped the left-hand pocket -- and there was something in it. Something small and folded. Had I used the pockets already and forgotten?

No. There was a 5-Euro note folded up small and tucked in the pocket. My pants are better-travelled than I. What worldly adventures have these pants known, I wonder?

We are still fretting about the upcoming "pit bull" ban, and whether or not Onyx will end up being called a "pit bull" -- in which case, if we have to pay $75 a year for a "dangerous" dog license and get an extra $300 000 in liability insurance -- if our insurance company will even consent to continue coverage -- we will not be able to afford him.

Here is another view of the "problem." Do not watch this if you are not somewhere where you can sob at will; it is heart-rendingly horrible and sad.
The Pit Bull Problem