The humans have contracted a particular fever. It involves bouncing spheres, statistical improbabilities, and the curious belief that shouting at a glowing rectangle will influence events occurring several time zones away.

They call it March Madness, which strikes me as redundant. March is inherently unhinged — temperatures swinging between winter's last tantrum and spring's premature declarations, light extending itself past all reasonable boundaries, the very air humming with uncertainty. Adding madness to March is like adding wetness to the Deschutes.

From my position on the sofa, I observe their rituals. Dad stares at his bracket — a grid of hope destined for systematic destruction. Mom announces she has picked teams based on uniform colors and mascot appeal, a methodology that appears no less scientific than the alternatives. They both ignore the fundamental truth: the outcome was determined before the first ball was thrown, written in the same cosmic ledger that decides whether the cookie jar will be refilled today or tomorrow.

Gus sleeps through most of it. He understands that human excitement rarely translates to immediate benefits for bassets. I remain alert, monitoring for signs that this madness might produce additional snacks. So far, the correlation holds.

The temperature reads 17°C — six degrees above what March typically offers. Even the weather has joined the conspiracy of unreasonable expectations.

~P.W.