frankly, my dear

I have a new buddy. She came home with me for a short visit last week. She quickly found the water bowl waiting for her, likewise the bowl of cat treats (oh, yum-m-m-mee it’s dairy flavor!!) and then was quite happy to accompany me out back, where she surveyed the yard and decided on a likely spot needing fertilization, then came and stood quietly at the door until I opened it.

Once inside, she took up a position in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. A short time later, she got up and strolled to the back door, looking over her shoulder at me. I let her out, but this time I stayed inside and watched as she wandered happily. She finished her appointed rounds, came back to the door, did not bark, did not scratch, simply touched the door with her front paw one time, and waited for me to open up. Ah, that was rewarding but exhausting!! She ambled over, let Jim pat her head and call her “Baby” then sprawled on the throw rug next to the front door and took a nap. Sometime later I went into the kitchen to make cole slaw and, as she claimed a spot in the middle of the floor, realized just how tiny my kitchen really is. Oh, did you want to step here? Too bad for you!!

Three hours later, as we were getting back in the car to take her home, she tried to jump up onto the back seat and didn’t quite make it, scrabbling but failing to find purchase on the too slick upholstery. And so she simply sat, half in, half out, catching her breath, so to speak, until I gently spoke to her and with a soft tug on the leash, got up, turned around, and then decided she could comfortably make it one step up to the floorboard. Which is when I discovered just how tiny my car really is. But once she was completely in, then she took the next step, up, and onto the bench seat.

Never once during our trip here or there did she try to get into the front, but seemed quite content to sit and survey the world as it passed by. The size of the back seat is canine friendly, well, at least for her size, as she could rest her chin on the back shelf, just this side of the brake light, and by simply turning her head could see out through all the windows. Alternating between snoozing and looking around, the trips were uneventful.

But once we got to her house, and I opened the car door, she froze. You could see it in her eyes, as her deductive reasoning kicked in: “oh, yes, this is where I had the problem 30 minutes ago, and now I’m not sure what to do.” I didn’t push, wanting to let her make the decision, but there was the lure of an offered treat, and so she got up her courage and with one bound she was out of the car and on the sidewalk.

At the stoop, she pressed her nose to the door, but when it didn’t open immediately, looked at me as if to say, "And just WHAT are you waiting for?" The homeowner answered our knock, and we were inside, Baby going straight to “her kitchen” floor, where she sprawled comfortably, accepting two last treats from me before my departure.

Back home, Jim and I talked. I don’t know if she’ll ever come home with me again, but it doesn’t matter, our lives have been forever changed. And we’re in love with Scarlett.

black bird singing in the dead of night

Just a comment on the recent push to put healthy snacks in vending machines. Fast food normally means way too much salt, way too much starch, way too much fat, way too much sugar. And way way way too much in the way of preservatives; how else to maintain the five year shelf life of the average cheeto. And when a person has no willpower over such offerings when hunger rears its ugly head, well, while I don’t completely agree that this area of my life should be yet another place where the dadguvment steps in, I guess it was just one more step in a long line of “it’s for your own good” legislation.

And so, actually, I was glad when hubby recently requested that I pack carrot sticks and celery sticks with his lunch. Seems he’s determined to not only drop a few pounds but also reduce his blood pressure readings. (Since you asked, yes, reason being the upcoming annual for the Guard; although for the life of me I can’t figure how he thinks being “good” for a month can undo the “ungood” of the previous eleven.)

Unfortunately for me and the weekly food budget, his intentions were, well, you know what they say about good intentions. At the end of the week was left with three of five containers that he had taken with him and then brought back home, unopened, untouched, with sticks now too soft to crunch and so not fit for human consumption. Threw them into the back yard in hopes resident rabbit would appreciate the treat. Poor bunny never got a chance. Who knew crows would eat carrots and celery? And not just eat them but fight over the crumbs.

Hmmmm. I suppose the moral of this story is: that’s why I’ve never seen a crow too fat to fly.

And not that it has anything to do with anything, except that this title is stuck in my head and all morning I’ve been channeling Paul McCartney, but I really don’t like this time of year. Send hubby to work in the dark and it’s dark before he gets home. Who ever decided to put off ending daylight savings until November? Shame, shame.

I can name that tune in two notes

My life is filled with music. Number one thing on my list each morning, as you can guess, is feed He Who Waits for No One and nothing will sway him from standing alongside that bowl. Second on the list you can guess without me going into detail. And number three is turn on the radio in the upstairs bathroom. My fave oldies station plays the kind of music I’m inclined to want early in the morning, but they also give frequent traffic updates, and in a household where both of us now go to work, that’s a necessity. In the car, it’s the same station, and I hum along as I toodle. Television commercial music is quite often, these days, based on a song I either remember from years past (ah, yes, advertising playing to the boomer generation) or have heard more recently as I cruise thru the land of Sirius.

But lately I’ve also been noticing music in things most unmusical. When I plug the cell phone into the charger, I hear two notes from The Blue Danube. When I open the microwave to retrieve the hot cuppa, I hear notes from Three Lock Box. Oh, okay, not really. But the similarity is so great that it starts me humming. So glad the coffee maker’s dirge comes later in the morning and does not set the tone for the day.

poor hubby

For the past two mornings the grass in the pasture across the street has had a definitely blue/green tinge. And so in the spirit of the season, yesterday decided to finish decorating the great room for fall. Retrieved from the supply closet a bag of fake fruit.

Usually I set a bowl of apples and pears on the table by the front door, for display purposes only, until hallowe’en is thankfully over and the last trick-or-treater has disappeared into the dark, leaving a scattering of candy wrappers in their wake. But a time crunch prevented me completing the arrangement, and so simply put the fruit in a bowl and set it on the kitchen table.

Keep in mind we never eat at that table, it’s there for prep purposes only, with meals served either from the counter or on the dining table.

This morning, after Jim left for work, noticed something amiss with one of the too-red-to-be-real apples. Evidently hubby had gotten up some time during the night and gone foraging. Bless him, he never said a word to me about it. But you can bet I’ll ask when he gets home tonight. And now I’m off to buy some real apples.