Mr. Splitfoot upset a bag of apples today. I'd hand-picked them at Market, happy for the first fresh such fruits heralding my favorite season. I left them in a brown bag wedged between the rice cooker and the microwave, with little chance they'd topple unassisted.

Although my wife and I were the only people in the house, the large muddy footprint of a male's boot was clearly visible on the kitchen floor, green apples spread around it bruised and dirty.