Shouts and whispers.

"Mamma!"  Federal Reserve Board economist Luciano Talaverdi was on the phone trying to placate his Italian mother, who was berating him over America's looming cuts to Social Security.  "Obama, mamma--"  He looked up pitifully at Obi Wan Woman, who was sitting in his guest chair shaking her head.  "Culpa nossa?  Mamma!"  He was, well, fed up with the Fed's taking the blame for everything and getting credit for nothing.  After a few more (loud) minutes, he convinced his mother that (a) the Fed had nothing to do with balancing the budget on the backs of pensioners and (b) he would pray for Pope Francis.

"Has she been reading 'The Alchemists'?" asked Obi Wan Woman.

"I wish."

Over at the White House, butler Clio was preparing for today's event on gun violence while her twin pre-schoolers shot water pistols at Bo.  "Fergie!  Reggie!  Stop shooting the dog!"

"He likes it!" protested Ferguson.  (This was actually true, because Bo was proud of overcoming his fear of water.)

"And we missed him!" added Regina.  (Also true.)

"I don't want to return a wet dog to President Obama!  Wet dogs smell bad!"

Smell bad? reflected Ghost Dennis.  That's a good idea!  Maybe generating a pungent odor at the event will make people remember this better than the last gun control event.  He floated off to the West Wing cleaning closet to see what he might be able to rustle up.  Whispering in their ears just isn't enough in this town.

Several miles to the north, the Dog Whisperer who had helped Bo was back at the Potomac Manors estate of Calico Johnson.  "Mr. L'Arche, this cow has me at my wit's end.  It was bad enough spending the money to build the state-of-the-art heated barn, which wasn't good enough for her, and then letting her live in my basement until winter passed, but it's 80 degrees outside, and Mega Moo still won't go outside!  This is ridiculous!"

Sebastian L'Arche motioned for Johnson to quiet down because Mega Moo was mooing soft and low.  "Mmmm," said L'Arche, encouragingly.  Then he frowned as Mega Moo continued.  "Mmmm."  (More mooing.)

"You see!" interrupted Johnson.  "Basia named her 'Mega Moo' because she was the loudest cow in Wisconsin."  (He choked up a little, thinking of Basia Karbusky.)  "Now she barely talks to me."

"Mr. Johnson," said L'Arche, continuing to stroke the geriatric cow, "Mega Moo has post-traumatic stress disorder from the fire, and from the disappearance of your neighbor.  She feels vulnerable when she's outside because her bovine narcolepsy has returned and she never knows when she will fall asleep and tip over.  She needs to get away from this place."

"What?!  What do you mean, 'get away?'"  (Mega Moo was all he had left of Basia!)

"She needs a new life," replied L'Arche.  "I could take her to the National Arboretum:  the Sequester took out their lawn-cutting service, and they could use her to trim the grass.  You could visit her whenever you wanted."

Johnson was a billionaire real estate mogul who purchased tree-lined properties if he had an inkling to look at trees.  (Visit a public arboretum?!  And subject Mega Moo to becoming an unpaid public servant?)  "That's not very dignified!" protested Johnson.

"Dude, you have a cow in your mansion's basement!"  (L'Arche instantly regretted using the word "dude"; then he realized Johnson might have been talking about the cow's dignity rather than his own.)  "Look, you're obviously fond of Mega Moo, so why don't you give her a chance to get back out in the fresh air and moo her lungs out?"

Johnson moved in to stroke the cow.  "Is that what you want?  A fresh start?"  (It was like Basia--even though she had never actually dated him--was leaving him all over again.)  "What if I rented out this place and took her to one of my other properties?"  (Johnson was now looking at L'Arche.)

"Well, yeah, that would probably work.  But I need to take her somewhere else in the meantime."

"OK, OK,  Take her to the Arboretum, but tell them it's only temporary!  Basia asked me to take care of Mega Moo--she's my responsibility."

Several miles to the south, Dr. Devi Rajatala blew more blood into yet another facial tissue:  it was as if the pollen itself had become violently evil.  She shook off her funky mood and returned to mowing the grassy knolls of the National Arboretum.

Up in the trees, the starlings--sated with the seeds they had scared the sparrows off--flew violently through the male trees, shaking out pollen all over the National Arboretum, just for fun.  A catbird shouted out a perfect mimicry of the lawn mower, while a raven watched silently from a distance.