It's not personal, Blue Dog. Nevermind that Mingus decided to rip you open where your hypothetical throat would be. You had a squeaker, and things with squeakers must die. Let this beam of light carry you to a happier place where you can squeak, squeak, squeak to your hypothetical heart's content.
Orange flowers, I like you. I like you a lot. I like it when I receive you for no reason at all*.
Curve of Pursuit blanket, why can't you knit yourself? You are like a scarf, times 100. I'm trying to infuse you with good thoughts, but I'm afraid that I'm unintentionally infusing you with I-hate-knitting-garter-stitch thoughts. I can see it now, the giftees will wrap the blankets around themselves, then look at each other and say, "I don't know what garter stitch is, but I sure hate it!" Yet, I have hope that I will love you, Curve of Pursuit blanket, and possibly even miss you, when you are gone. That is always how these things go. Again, it isn't personal.
*Keep 'em coming, flower giver!