You lived a long good life.
You were tolerant of children.
and provided me with one of my favorite hunting stories.
I live with cats.
But I wouldn’t call myself a cat person. I am firmly in camp dog. Why you ask?
This is why:
For those who cannot see or understand what they are looking at let me explain. This is a photo of a cat laying in a crate of potatoes. The potatoes are the last of the harvest I’ve just pulled in from the garden. The cat is laying directly on the cold lumpy potatoes and looks as uncomfortable as one would expect to be laying on cold lumpy potatoes. There is no reason for her to shed all over my fresh produce other than that cats are, essentially, jerks.
But, my cat loving husband says, your dogs would probably pee on them if given an opportunity. And I can’t disagree. My boys will pee on anything they deem necessary to claim as their own. And if it were at dog peeing level and they didn’t pee on the potatoes they would probably steal them and play with them like I had just provided them with the best toys ever. But the difference is they would be happy. Joyfully marking their territory, proudly showing me the new thing they “own” ecstatically asking me to join a game with their new “toys”. Oh, they would be in trouble but hidden beneath their rotten choices are hearts of gold.
Look at this cat. She’s not even happy to be laying on the potatoes. She, like all cats, does not have a heart of gold but something much more sinister and dark. Cats are known for covering the coziest, warmest spots around. There is no reason to lay on my cold, lumpy potatoes other than to prove that as a cat you can.
And that is why I am a dog person.
This morning while outside doing my daily chores Goose brought me a possum.
He unwillingly held it for a moment while I took a picture and then spit it out into my hand (never pass up an opportunity to practice good retrieves). Having no real issue with possums, I always stick them up in a tree when the dogs bring them to me and let them come to and wander off when they are ready. This morning though I had a better idea, a way more fun idea. I put the possum up on a platform bird feeder in the backyard, well out of the reach of the dogs and then went inside to announce to the entire house of schooling and working people that their was a possum playing dead in the birdfeeder and they should keep an eye on it so they can see it walk off.
John came down from his office to adjust the possum so he could tell from his view when it woke up. Kids ran to windows. The excitement a possum can bring to this household is not to be underestimated.
And then we waited…
And it turns out that while every other time the possums the dogs have retrieved have been playing dead, this possum was dead dead.
It seems like a perfect analogy for those days that seem like they’ll be shiny… and then… no.
A dead possum kind of a day.
Somedays are like that.
Until next time,
May your health be fair and your dead possum days be few.
I’m not much of a musician. I try, somewhat, but my efforts, combined with my innate lack of musicality, mainly succeed only so much as to bring to mind a certain phrase about flogging a dead horse.
However, I excel at playing the dog whistle. While it might not be the most tuneful instrument around I always have a rapt and appreciative audience.
Chalk that up as another reason to love a good dog.
After weeks of recovering from a silly knee injury I’m back out walking the dogs and taking pictures of things that catch my fancy again!
The dogs and I are all smiling about that! Now it might be time to look for some birds…
Everyone here is excited that my nephew has come to stay for awhile…
…except maybe Goose who is looking worried that he is in danger of losing his favorite top dog perch!
Today’s photo was taken by John in contribution to my month long participation in the April Squares challenge hosted by The Life of B.
When you take your guard duties seriously it’s important to have the high ground.
Willingness to leap to the top of a five foot high stump is imperative if you are to truly do your duty as a watch dog. As is the tenacity to bark at the neighbor no matter how many times you’ve been told not to. And most importantly never, ever, smile no matter what the tourists do for a picture.
I’m participating in the April Squares challenge over at The Life of B come check it out!
If you insist on collecting eggs in your pockets.
Which I do.
And if one of your pockets has a hole.
Which mine does.
And if you never count how many eggs you put into your pocket.
Which I don’t.
So that you inevitably lose an egg in the lining of your coat without realizing it.
Of course I do.
And the egg breaks inside your jacket.
As mine do.
So that you wonder why you still haven’t sewed that hole shut.
As I do.
It’s best to have a helper to carefully remove as much egg and shell as possible through the hole before the wash.
And I have the best one of those.
“Now, bring me that horizon,” says Captain Jack Sparrow.
And also my dog and I.
We miss fall hunting and big skies.
Last week we had an ice storm.
No, that’s overly dramatic and not very accurate.
Last week we had lots of nice beautiful snow. Then the temperature did un-winter like things and the precipitation that fell was not snow. One morning I woke up to discover that we no longer had snow. Instead we had white ground covering what looked like snow but was actually ice and it was still raining/sleeting/hailing/anything-but-snowing.
I headed out to do the chores and while ice was glistening on all the branches making a beautiful sight it took me an unprecedented amount of time to haul my buckets of water across the ice that was masquerading as a snowy yard to the birds.
I let my birds out and the geese walked down their ramp and tried to walk across the snow-ice to their water pan but their big ol’ feet kept slipping in old ruts and they fell on their faces. I would have taken a video but they don’t like me laughing at them and if they found out I had done that they would have held a grudge. You don’t want a goose with a grudge.
Instead, I slipped and slid and swore my way over to the brooder house with it’s winter supply of straw and then slipped and slid and swore my way back over to the poultry and spread them a nice layer of straw so they could stand and walk without slipping. Satisfied they’d be fine for the day I started back toward the house doing my now second-nature awkward penguin shuffle with the tiny steps as slipped in and out of every old foot print I ever made, occasionally flapping my arms like a dancing ostrich to keep my balance.
Then I stopped the insanity, looked back at the geese happily walking on their straw and headed back to the brooder house.
You know what they say, What’s good for the goose, is good for the gander.
Happy with my straw trails, I shortcuted through the non-slippery house to the front to see what sort of beautiful ice coatings I could find and to check out the driveway.
The ice was indeed beautiful.
The driveway was indeed ice.
But what’s good for the goose…
… it looked odd, it was a bit unorthodox but it worked!