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The line drive whistled off the pink bat toward third base, where it scattered the dust when it landed untouched by a fielder. The batter took off toward first base, where a coach was encouraging a runner already there to move along toward second.

The little hitter stopped at first, and as each successive hitter made contact and followed her, she kept shuttling around the bases, until, after she crossed home, she headed back to first base, where she was detoured by the coach and told she could sit down.

I don’t have a dog in this fight, but now I can’t imagine that Mitt Romney has any more chance of carrying Shelby County on Election Day (either of them)  than Hooch does of of winning the Westminster Dog Show.

That became cat-eyed clear when I read the other day for the first time the story of the Romney family’s dog and his ride atop the car on a family vacation.

I realize many of you who doggedly follow the political pontifications already know all the leavings on this.

I have escaped a scourge of Valentine’s Day that I had feared might stain my life.

No one in my family received a “tattoo Valentine,” and I am forever grateful that their precious hides were spared.

Now, I know those boxes I saw among the kids’ cards at a couple of stores this past weekend didn’t include needles and ink, but they did carry with them, I fear, an impression on delicate minds that was equally dangerous and potentially damaging.

And in the same country, two editors were keeping track over the newsroom by night.

And, lo, an angel of the Lord came before them, and the glory of the Lord shown round about them.

But they weren’t afraid, because they knew this was Fred, a neighbor in St. Peter’s Loving Arms Apartments.

“I have glad tidings of great joy,” he said. “Which shall be unto all people.”

They shook their heads.