Oh give me a break. The dogs are still inside, right where I left them, just beyond this wide-open door and I — oh, no! They’re not anywhere to be found. Who, I ask of you, who, who let the dogs out, out into this wide, wide world of mystery, I must say. Because, as my Great Aunt Nonie was wont to say — and if anyone was wont, she was wont to be wont — there are mysteries for which there are answers, and there are mysteries for which the answers remain mysterious, and there are mysteries for which the nature of their answerness remains a mystery. Oh, wait, that wasn’t my Great Aunt Nonie, that was Donald Rumsfeld. And, if truth be told, whilst Mr. Rumsfeld is ever so rarely mistaken for My Great Aunt Nonie, my Great Aunt Nonie was ever-so-slightly- more-than-she-let-on mistooken for said Mr. Rumsfeld.