"Do something!" Cynthia said with alarm.
Dean went to the kitchen, returning with a dustpan and whisk broom, only to be rewarded with a stern lecture on his insensitivity when he made motions to pitch the little varmint out in the snow.
"No one invited him in the first place," Dean grumbled, just as Mrs. Lincoln, the successful but bewildered hunter, returned for a second round. She was promptly chased away by the mourning women and sulked off to her spot in the window. Meanwhile Donnie and Martha, with Cynthia's help, tried to revive the mortally wounded creature but the prognosis was not good. Dean's suggestion of placing the little fellow out of doors in the trash was overruled by his more compassionate wife who pointed out the resulting reduced chances of January survival. Sadly, all their attention was for naught. Monty, as he became known during his brief public life, succumbed to his injuries. A slight burst of tears followed from Martha until Dean rendered a speech on survival of the fittest, the laws of the jungle, the food chain and supply and demand. Cynthia suggested a funeral, complete with a shoebox coffin and a solemn burial, a feat Dean would have guessed impossible given the frozen earth. However, the children found the soil spring-soft next to the building foundation, thanks to the Dean's fuel-bill contributions and the poor insulation of Bird Song. Mrs. Lincoln attempted to attend the service but was chased away. The poor animal was beginning to think "Bad Cat" was her new name.
Just as the glue was drying on the small wooden cross, a noise at the front door announced the arrival of the sisters from Boston. Once again, the mysterious notebook took a back seat to the more pedestrian happenings at the Ouray inn.