Mundane tasks occupy me, and I'm concentrating. The closest I've come to ratiocination this morning is explaining to New Dog Libby that she didn't get to go for a ride because she was a pain in the ass earlier.
I explained that an excitable adolescent girl nature did not justify totally ignoring a clear call to "come" when I'd finished a little wood-splitting. "Young Lady," I said, "The Camp J command structure follows B.F. Skinner, and you must learn to accommodate yourself to a strict behaviorist regimen."
She didn't say anything back. Probably wants to think it over.
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