It's me, walking briskly around the neighborhood in my bright white size 9 Converse low-top Chucks with a leash in my hand. Dressed in what I've decided is my budget-Eileen Fisher-knockoff outfit (linenish black pants I bought at Old Navy and washed and dried so they became slightly less clownish and the perfect length rather than dragging on the ground. Only minimally linty and dog-haired at the moment. Pockets stuffed with poop bags™. Oh, note to self: HANG TO DRY FROM HERE ON OUT. Also a lovely sleeveless cotton/linen orange top that Mark bought me).
As Gus and I passed our next-door neighbor's house, we spotted the whistle pig who divides his time between our yard and hers penned in a Hav A Heart trap, looking for all the world like a cartoon groundhog, pushing up with his little arms against its metal lid. There was a huge slab of granite on top of the trap. Poor little guy! Just the other day I saw him hustling busily across my back yard. I could imagine him wearing a little outfit of some kind. (Maybe I should refer to him/her as them. But I have mentally gendered him already, so.)