If Only

           This week…

          Hmmm. This week…

          Looking back, in my mind’s eye, all I can say about this week is it was pretty mundane. And it didn’t get much better when I looked through my photos either. Whereas some weeks have an abundance of photos, this week won’t. Not only that, I’m struggling with quality and content. Considering we’re 47 weeks into the year 2020 and I’ve written you 45 times, I guess I’m entitled to an off week now and then, don’cha think? I’m just covering my bases here in case this week turns out to not be worth the paper it’s written on but what say we get started and see where we end up. My letter blogs sometimes take on a life of their own and we both may be surprised — but don’t hold your breath.

          So!

          We did go shopping this week. With a COVID shutdown looming over our heads here in the commonwealth of Pennsylvania, Mike thought it prudent to do a little stocking up. We went to Dickson City Sam’s Club and Aldi’s on a rainy day. When I saw this workerman’s ladder it looked a little precarious. As we got closer, I realized it wasn’t nearly so. He had his extension ladder against the sturdy metal ladder that extended a few feet below the sign.

          Several windows in Clarks Summit are painted for the holidays. I missed the one I really wanted; Santa in his sleigh, but got these two which I thought were worth sharing. Maybe not in quality as I was shooting out of Mike’s streaky driver’s side window, but in content.  It’s a strange world we live in today. 

          A motel is getting a makeover.

          Oversized loads are a common site around here with the booming gas industry.

          Machines on a hill.

          The beautiful Susquehanna.

          The bright orange red of the Bittersweet is easy to spot along the road this time of year.

          Bittersweet wasn’t the only thing I was watching for. I was looking for hawks too.

          “There,” I told Mike after I got this shot. “I’ve got a shot of the Bittersweet, now if only I can get one of a hawk too.”

          Coming up Welles Mountain we see a PenDot truck parked at the end of a section of guide rail.

          “What…” Mike started.

          A little farther on we see two guys surveying the roadside. They watched as we approached to make sure they didn’t have to jump for their lives.

          “It looks like the road is slipping,” I said as Mike gave them a wide berth.

          We got past them and there it is! My hawk! But he’s not sitting in a tree, he’d already taken flight. I should’ve been more specific when I was making my wish.

          One of the things that made it into my buggy at Sam’s Club were these Two-bite Brownies. Have you ever had them? They are so good — and I don’t even care much for chocolate! 

           I wouldn’t have bought them except I needed a plastic container for a craft project and this one looked like it would give me the most use.

          “What are you doing now!” you wanna know.

          Well, sometimes my face mask tickles my nose. I’ve seen standoffs made of molded plastic that you can insert between your face mask and face but why buy one if I can make something that would work equally as well.

          A Google search showed a simple one made from a number one plastic container so I thought I’d give it a try.

          I shared the brownies with the neighbors. They’re not as fattening that way. I found an easy way to remove labels from plastic. Mix baking soda and some type of cooking oil in equal portions, scrub it around with your fingers — at least I used my fingers. Then I wiped it off with a paper towel because I didn’t want all that oil down my drain, and wash with soap and water. It works really well. I cut the plastic into two different widths, measured to fit inside my mask, and punched holes with a hole punch. I’ll tell you what! My palm got so sore from using the hole punch that I could only do a couple then had to wait a few days to do more. I wanted a few to share, don’cha know.

          “How’s it work?” you ask.

          I think I like the wider one better and it does the job but now that I have one, I’m not so sure I needed it. Doggone it! I ate all those Brownie Bites for nothing!

          One of the things I couldn’t get on our shopping trip was oyster crackers at Aldi’s. They didn’t have them at the Dickson City location nor at the Tunkhannock one either. Oyster crackers are a seasonal item and they only sell them in the winter. Which means, if you love them as much as I do, you have to stock up to get you through the summer months. I love them so much I think I’m starting to resemble an oyster cracker!

          Another thing I couldn’t get was the big bags of cat food that I buy at Walmart. The shelf at the Tunkhannock store was bare.

          This week had a holiday stuck just about in the middle of it. We had Thanksgiving on Thursday.

          “Mike, I don’t know if I have enough pain meds to get Itsy through till Friday,” I told him. Friday was when Itsy went back to the vet for a follow up.

          “You’d better call and get some then.”

          I called and ordered it. That meant a trip in the opposite direction as Dickson City. A trip to Towanda.

          “We’ll be halfway to Sayre,” Mike said. “You wanna go on up and see if that Aldi’s has your crackers?”

          I had a list with a couple of other things I’d forgotten. Like canned pumpkin. Besides making Pumpkin Rolls for the holidays, I give Itsy a teaspoon of pumpkin when I think she’s a little twitterpated — consterpated — having a hard time going poo! Dogs and cats both like pumpkin.

          On the way up out of Wyalusing a Black Vulture was snacking on the hindquarters of a young buck. These vultures don’t scare easily and he didn’t take flight when we passed.

          “I’m surprised someone hasn’t taken the antlers,” I said.

          “They wouldn’t do that. Not right alongside the road — would they?”

          “I think so.” It isn’t that these antlers were especially impressive but they are valuable. There’s a market for antlers.

          Itsy’s pain meds need to be refrigerated so we did our shopping first. I only took a couple of pictures.

          The Aldi’s store had my crackers so we got a box. The cashier came to my four cans of pumpkin on the line. “I’m sorry, but there’s a limit of two on the pumpkin,” she said. “But I can ring them up separate.”

“Why’s there a limit?” I wanted to know.

“People were buying cases of it and we couldn’t get any for a while.”

Cases of canned pumpkin? I asked but she didn’t know what they were doing with all that pumpkin.

After paying for our purchases we moved to the bagging station. “I’m gonna pee before we leave,” I said.

          “Me too,” Mike said. “Here,” he handed me the key fob, “you wanna put the groceries away while I go first?”

          “Sure,” I agreed.

          Groceries stowed, cart returned, quarter retrieved, peeing out of the way, we buckle up and head to Walmart for cat food, and Mike tells me a story.

          “I went to wash my hands,” he started, “I got soap on ‘em and couldn’t get the water to come on. About the time I thought I’d have to go back in the stall and get some toilet paper to wipe it off, I gave it one more try and the water came on. Then I spit — right in my face mask!” he laughed at himself. “Then I hadda go get a piece of toilet paper anyway!” he finished.

          I laughed. I laughed and laughed. I laugh as I write this. I could see it in my head because I’ve seen it so many times in life. Mike hears water running, he leans over and spits. It doesn’t matter if it’s the sink, the shower, the garden hose, or he’s peeing.

          “It’s kinda like spittin’ in the wind,” Mike said. “Just one of those things you don’t really want to do.”

          When I could take a breath, I said, “That is too funny! You gotta let me tell that story in my letter blog.”

          “No,” he said.

          I begged a little but he kept saying no so I let it rest — for the time being. I intended to try later, closer to the time of the actual letter blog making.

          We finished our shopping, picked up the dog meds, and headed for home. I had one more thing to do before I could kick my shoes off and ditch my bra. I had a Thanksgiving slash fall gift to deliver to my beautiful, feisty, redheaded neighbor.

          I made a pumpkin with a sunflower and ladybug on it for my Miss Rosie. I finished it four or five days ahead of when I intended to give it to her and thought it was so cute, I had to share it on the internet. Not to worry. The Kipps aren’t on the internet so I knew they’d never see it and I swore everyone else to secrecy.

          “Do you think she’ll like it?” I asked my peeps.

          “No,” my beautiful Minnesota sister answered. “She’ll LOVE it!”

          Phyllis, you were right. Miss Rosie loves it!

          “Guess what I did,” Mike says as we sat around the Kipps’ table chatting.

          I gasped! I knew what he was going to say. “If you tell that story then I get to write about it!”

          Mike laughed and I turned my camera on him. 

          He settled into story-telling mode and I got his picture.     

          The Kipps laughed when he finished. But Mike isn’t the only one who forgets he’s wearing a face mask.

          “We’d gotten our haircuts and went to make an appointment for next month,” Miss Rosie tells on herself. “I had my little pocket calendar in my purse so I got it out to write it down. When I went to turn the page to December…”

          Apparently, it’s as hard to lick your finger while wearing a face mask as it is to spit. 

          >>>*<<<

I was dreading Itsy’s vet appointment. You never realize how far fourteen miles is until you have a crying baby in the car, aka, Itsy. My attention was taken up with her so I only took one picture. I see a tractor hiding in there.

          I tried everything to quiet her. Petting, cooing, covering her eyes, scolding, letting her wander on the floor. It was so bad I was afraid she’d make herself sick. In a last-ditch attempt I put her in her car seat, took a (gentle) hold of her snout and gave it a (gentle) shake and channeled my youngest and most handsome son. Something I’ve heard Kevin say, and in the way he says it, came to mind. “Com’on now. There ain’t no need for all that right there.” It worked. Sort of. Itsy was so intent on trying to bite me that she forgot to whine. I kept up the ‘torment’ the rest of the way to the vet and as long as I did, she didn’t cry.

          Once at the vet’s office I had to take her out of the Jeep and let her walk around in the grass. Every time I tried to sit in the Jeep with her, she’d start her crying again.

          And here’s the bottom line. There’s still blood in Itsy’s urine. Dr. Lori believes it’s age onset kidney disease. She doesn’t think it’s causing her any pain right now but is concerned something else is going on too. Itsy has to really expand her ribcage to get a breath. “Her lungs sound fine, but maybe there’s a tumor or something growing in there.”

          We’re keeping her on pain meds for her arthritis and we’re trying a couple of other things for the rash. Dr. Lori thinks at least some of the crying is behavioral and she gave us a list of things to watch out for that signal the end is near.

          We know it’s coming. In the meantime, we just love on her one day at a time.

          With a sigh, and steely resolve, we head for home. I tried to keep Itsy occupied until we got back to Wysox and the McDonalds drive thru. It was lunchtime and I knew from the last trip we made that if Itsy’s eating, she’s not whining.

          I shared pieces of my McDouble burger with her then switched over to some of Mike’s chicken McNuggets.

          I don’t really think nuggets are all that healthy for us and I’m equally sure they’re not all that healthy for Itsy either. I held on to the nugget as tight as I could and only let her tear off little pieces at a time.

          After three she wouldn’t take anymore and started in on her crying routine again.

          Maybe she’s thirsty, I thought and dumped some water in the lid of a McNugget box. Greedily, she lapped it up.

          After that she wouldn’t take anything else and nothing could dissuade her from crying the last four or five miles to home.

          She won’t have to go back to see Dr. Lori again until it’s time.

          I can give Itsy a couple of baths a week with a mild shampoo to help soothe her skin. And because I want to treat her skin with the meds and not the hair, I shaved her.

          “Oh, Peg!” you say.

          Hey! I didn’t do all that much! Like old men bald as they age, so did Itsy. She didn’t have much hair on top anyway.  

>>>*<<<

          Mike only has me to talk to most of the time. So he really enjoys the visits from the Kipps and his daily phone conversations with our old friend Margaret in Missouri. They’re all more tolerant to conversing about the things that Mike wants to talk about than I am. Not that I don’t listen, I do, but often times make no comment.

          “Listen to this, Peg,” Mike was scrolling through Yahoo News at the time. “It says here that Trump wants to bring back the electric chair and firing squad!”

          And there I go, wandering around in the world of electric chairs and firing squads. In my mind’s eye I see the movie The Green Mile. They executed using an electric chair. That doesn’t seem like a good way to go. My mind turns to firing squads. Days of old, days of swift sentencing, and days of swifter punishment. Men tied to a post; a red cloth heart pinned over their hearts. And I wondered…

          “Would a bullet to the heart kill you faster or a bullet to the head?”

          “I don’t know,” Mike answered my musings.

          “Let’s Google it!” I pulled out my phone and asked Google. Can you guess what came up? Suicide prevention. “I’m not going to kill myself!” I tell Google. And I guess it’s really a moot point anyway. If ever in that situation, I doubt I’ll be given a choice.  

>>>*<<<

          We’ve been watching movies lately. Once we finished the series Heartland, I tried to get Mike interested in another series but he just wasn’t into Cagney and Lacey. We decided to watch Ozark with Jason Bateman. It’s a series about the part of Missouri we used to live in. They talk about the towns in the area and even our iconic Indian on the Strip made it into a scene.

          Speaking of the Indian, here’s a picture I took of it with my then two-year-old grandson sitting on his foot. I had a hard time deciding which picture to show you because I took several cute ones that day of Andrew and the Indian.

The Indian looks kinda rough here and I believe he’s since been restored.

Unfortunately, the locals hated the show Ozark. It was about drug dealers and deals and there was a lot of killing. Not the way they wanted their beloved hometown to be portrayed. I didn’t watch it very long before I knew I couldn’t watch it. The language and violence were terrible. And you know what they say about garbage, don’t you? Garbage in, garbage out. It’s not what I want in my head or my heart or coming out of my mouth.

          Mike, on the other hand, was hooked on the show. And it got into his head and came out his mouth — even though I didn’t want to hear it!

          “MIKE!” I’d scold when he’d start to tell me something he saw. “If I wanted that crap in my head, I’d watch it with you!”

          “It’s disturbing,” he’d say and shake his head.

          “And yet you watched it anyway.” I don’t get it.

          He watched until the end and there won’t be a new season until next year sometime.

          Disney Plus is more my speed. We’ve been watching some of the old classics. That Darn Cat, Treasure Island, Blackbeard’s Ghost, The Parent Trap, The Ugly Dachshund, Davy Crockett.

          Some of them make us laugh. Some of the antics Mike thinks are just plain silly.

          “What’d’ya thinka that one?” he’ll often ask.

          “It was good. What’d you think?”

          “It was okay. But it isn’t something I’d ever pick out to watch myself.”

          “Yeah? You’d pick out stuff like Ozarks.”

          He thought about it for a moment. “That was disturbing.”

I just don’t get it. Even after all this time he still remembers the horrible parts. And the thing is, once you see that stuff, you can never unsee it! Why would you do it?

>>>*<<<

          Look at this handsome family, would ya! I’m sure some of you recognize our youngest son Kevin by now, his beautiful wife Kandyce, and almost eight-year-old son Andrew.

          A little over a week ago, Kevin Facebook Facetimed us.

          “I’m going to be a big brother,” Andrew, full of excitement, burst at the seams.

          “Andrew!” Kandyce admonished. “We were going to do a cupcake reveal with Mimi and Pop-pop!”

          Andrew put his hand over his face.

          I can understand his excitement. He’s wanted a little brother for a long time and now mama was going to have one for him. And we were equally excited for all of them.

          Friday, my phone rings. Unknown caller. Generally, I don’t answer those and let them go to voicemail but this time I did.

          “Hi Mom,” came the masculine voice.

          For a heartbeat I couldn’t say anything. After all these years my estranged oldest son was calling me. “Hi,” I finally managed.

          “Happy Thanksgiving,” and I knew then it was Kevin.

          “Why did your number come up as unknown?” I asked but he didn’t know.

          “I have some sad news.” I could hear in his voice that he was sad. “We lost the baby.”

          “Oh no!” I cried and my heart fell out of my chest and shattered on the floor.

          Kandyce had been seeing her doctor every couple of weeks and just past the 12-week mark, the baby sounded fine, had a strong heartbeat. 

         Then at the next appointment, nothing. No heartbeat. Austin Wayne has gone home to be with our Lord — and the tears leak out of my eyes and stream down my cheeks. I’m incredibly sad for them and if only I could carry a baby, I’d carry one for them.

           Let’s call this one done.

         

 

Highs and Lows

           Friday.

          It was Friday and the weekend was coming.

          (The weekend is always coming.)

          My thoughts turned to my letter blog.

          (The letter blog always occupies my thoughts at some level.)

          One thing stands out this week. An event we’ve been looking forward to for a long time. And it’s finally happened. The title for this week’s letter blog should reflect that and possible names ran through my head as I discarded one idea after another.

          Brushing my teeth.

I was brushing my teeth that night, before bed, and thought, this week has been full of highs (as I thought of the long-awaited event) and lows (as I thought of our weeks long struggle with Itsy).

And just like that a name was born.

Highs and Lows.

The high point…

We’ve been working with an RV dealership to purchase our RV. We’ve had to take a loss in order to make the deal happen but, in the end, all things considered, we’ll save money.

They flew a driver in from Florida to drive it back. But first he had to check it out and make sure it was as we represented it. Once he was sure it was, he dismissed his driver and called his boss, “You’ve got a heck of a deal on this one,” he told Gary. “It’s pristine.”

The papers were signed, checks were stuffed into a Fed-Ex overnight envelope and the deal was done.

That’s the condensed version.

“Peg, that’s not how you usually do it,” you say.

I know, right! I’m normally much more long-winded than that. But I’m afraid the details would just bore you to tears.

          “Peg! Give us something!” you beg.

          Okay. There are a few things.

          “Let’s go down and move the RV into the center of the bay,” Mike said. “Then when he gets here tomorrow, he can walk the whole way around it.”

          I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice. I haven’t been nice all week (as Mike will quickly tell you). The strain of dealing with Itsy has my nerves worn very thin. “We can do all of that tomorrow before he gets here,” I snipped. “What’s the point in doing it now?”

          “I need to get the plate off it and I can’t do that where it’s parked. Besides, I just want to make sure everything’s okay.”

          My little worrywart. He’s always got to have something to worry about and he’s gonna worry himself right into an early grave.

          I took a deep breath and remembered something Chad, the agent for the dealership, told us.

          “Some people think that once our guy gets there that we’ll take it no matter what. But it’s not true. If we find something wrong, we’ll walk away from the deal. Our guy will turn around and fly right back outta there.”

          We didn’t misrepresent our RV in any way so I was sure that wouldn’t be an issue. Nonetheless, if he walked around it and didn’t like it, he could leave. It was better we do that in the barn so IF he walks, Mike doesn’t have to put it back away. That was a longshot but it made me feel better about walking down there with him.

          Parked in front of the RV was the Kioti tractor. It had to be moved and wouldn’t start. “It needs new battery terminals,” Mike said and fussed with the connections, cleaning, tightening them. “You get on and see if it’ll start now.”

          I tried the ignition but it wouldn’t start. Mike cleaned the other terminal and had me try again. Nope. We tried several more times as he fussed with it. Still no go.

          “Maybe we can push it,” I suggested.

          Mike scoffed. “You can’t push it, the bucket’s down. Maybe the battery’s dead.”

          I sat tight while Mike went for the battery charger. He hooked it up and we waited for a while. It still wouldn’t start.

          Mike got on the Gravely and tried to push the Kioti. It didn’t work. He got a chain and tried pulling it. That was only slightly effective.

         Mike knew he had to get the bucket off the ground. He got a pry bar; I slid an old fence post under the bucket and that helped some. In a last-ditch effort, Mike tried pushing the Kioti with the Gravely and this time managed to push it out of the bay the RV was in.

          And this is one example of Mike’s worrywarting paying off. I’m glad we didn’t have this problem to deal with on the day of the sale.

          “Wow, it’s been garage-kept,” the guy said when he saw it sitting there.

          “Yep.” Mike grinned. “It’s like new.”

          “What’s your name,” I asked.

          “Harmon,” he said.

          “Harmon?” I repeated.

          “No, Harmon,” I heard him say again. With masks on I couldn’t see what he was saying.

          “Spell it for me, please?” I asked.

          “A R M A N D,” Armand said.

          I’d never heard that name before. “How did you get a name like that?” I was curious.

          “My father is French-Canadian from Quebec and one of ten boys. It was his name and his father’s name and now it’s my name.”

          “Ten boys! Wow. Any girls?”

          “Yep. Two.”

          During our conversation I found out he’s 77 years old, married for 59 years, has a slew of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and retired from 30 years in the Air Force.

          “How did you get this job?”

          “My granddaughter is married to a guy who did this job. They knew I had an RV and asked if I wanted to try it. I’ve been doing it for three years now and only take the job if I want to.”

          “And you wanted this one?” I wondered why.

          “I have friends about three hours south of here so I’m going to stop off and see them.”

          We did the paperwork, watched Armand put checks in the Fed-Ex envelope and seal it.

          “Can I take that to Fed-Ex for you?” Mike asked. He didn’t want to admit he didn’t trust someone else to do that.

          “What happens if he doesn’t put the check in the mail and he wrecks it,” my little worrywart worried a day ago. “Do I get it back then?”

          “No,” Armand answered him. “I can’t let you do that. I have to. Where’s the Fed-Ex office?”

          We ended up leading the way to Wysox to mail the envelope and Mike went inside with him when he mailed it. I waited in the Jeep. Armand and Mike came back out and said their goodbyes. Armand took his mask off on his way to the RV and this shot taken through the side window is the first I’d seen his face.

          Mike and I went in one direction, Armand was going in the other. We pulled out onto the road before I realized I hadn’t taken any pictures of the RV so I snapped one through the back window.

          “You know how sometimes you get buyer’s remorse?” Mike asked.

          “Yeah?”

          “I think I’ve got seller’s remorse. That’s the RV I’ve wanted for many years and we didn’t really get to use it.”

          I tried to remind him of all the reasons we did sell it but it didn’t seem to make him feel any better.

          The lease on our Jeep is up in less than a year and Mike is thinking about getting a van next. He must’ve been contemplating that as we drove home.

          “If we want to go anywhere, a van would be ideal. It’s comfortable to drive, you can haul lots of stuff, and you can help drive,” he said.

          “That’s not really going to work very well. For one thing, you hate my driving. I’ll only be driving for fifteen minutes and you’ll say, ‘Pull over, Peg. I’ll drive.’ Besides, you won’t take pictures for me. I’ll say, ‘Hey Mike! Get a picture of that!’” I pointed for emphasis and imaging what Mike would do in that situation, I adopted a goofy grin, held the camera at arm’s length, pointed it out the window and snapped off a couple of pictures in a haphazard manner. “’Oh, sorry Peg. I tried!’ That’s what you’d say.”

          He laughed. He knew I was right. He might take one or two pictures to humor me but it wouldn’t last.

          I downloaded the pictures and these are the two I snapped during my tirade.

          Yep. Upside down and all. Mike doesn’t take very good pictures, does he.

          In the end I did agree that I could help drive.

          Mike talked with Armand later that evening. He loves the coach and is thinking he’d like to buy it.

          And that was not only a high point to our week but, in Mike’s case, a low one too.

          The other issue, the lowest of the low issues this week, is Itsy. Her pain meds weren’t carrying her through to the next dose and, as I’ve told you before, I’m a bit of a rule follower. If it’s 12 hours between doses, by golly, I’m waiting 12 hours till I give it to her. What a mistake. For days we had to listen to her incessant crying for two to three hours at a time before the next dose and half an hour after till it kicks in.

          “I think she’s in pain,” Mike insists.

          I tend to think it’s itching of the rash. She can’t scratch her back so all she can do is cry.

          “Give her a bath with that shampoo the vet gave you,” Mike said.

          “What good will that do?”

          “It’s a special shampoo.”

          “It’s just a mild shampoo so as not to irritate. There’s no medicine in it.”

          At this point things were said. Some not-so-very nice things. I did get up and give her a bath and Google-searched for ways to relieve itching. Vinegar was suggested and I tried that first but it didn’t seem to make any difference. Baking soda was also suggested so I made a thin soup and poured it over her back. It dried into a hard, crusty coat of armor and there’s baking soda all over my floor. Whether it was the bath or baking soda, something helped, because she settled down after that. And if it helps then I don’t care how much baking soda drops on my floor.

          For two days, twice a day, I’d douse her in baking soda.

          I called the vet and they upped her dose of pain meds. That worked for a couple of days and I slacked off on the baking soda then it was back to the same routine of whining and crying for a couple of hours till another dose was due.

          Friday, I called and talked with Dr. Lori for half an hour. We’re going to give her a half dose between the two full doses. I had high hopes this would work. Friday night she had a full dose at six o’clock. I put her to bed around 8:30. One o’clock I got up and took her out to pee and gave her a half dose of pain meds. By four-thirty she was crying. I was awake and heard Mike take her out. She cried for a while after he brought her back in but she soon settled down. At five thirty I got up to her cries.

“What’s the matter, Itsy,” I cooed as I picked her up. Then to Mike, who was watching TV, I said, “I heard you take her out an hour ago.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think she peed.”

I headed to the kitchen with Itsy in hand and spy a wet spot on the carpet. “Awww. There’s a wet spot!”  

That’s the second (or maybe third) time this week she didn’t make it from one to five-thirty without peeing on the floor.

I fed Itsy and gave her a full dose of meds. Six hours later I gave her a half-dose and she spent the next hour crying. Fed up to my gills, I mixed a baking soda soup and gooped it on her hoping she’d get some relief.

“How did it work?” you want to know.

It didn’t work right away but after about 45 minutes she settled down.

          But life is seldom all highs or all lows. There’s plenty of ground in between.

          We had really strong gusty winds and lost a tree. It fell across the road but we didn’t know it till the Kipps came in from their morning walk and told us.

          The next day I took a ride with this beautiful lady and her handsome buddy. Mick had a follow-up appointment at Cornell University and I was asked to ride along. A little girl time with my best girl was just what I needed! We yapped the whole way, only missing one turn.

          It was starting to flurry when we left and it was getting heavier as we headed north out of Wysox.

          I didn’t take many pictures. This is like the fourth time I’ve been on these roads.

          As we got into New York, we ran out of the snow.

          Somebody, somebody loved died here. If I had to guess, I’d say it was a motorcycle accident.

         Mick is suffering from allergies. His feet swell up double their normal size and get open sores on them. Between the special diet, meds, and good care Jody gives him, the vet is pleased with the progress he’s made. He doesn’t have to go back to the clinic anymore but will likely be on meds the rest of his life.

          “We have to stop over at the hospital and get some meds for him,” Jody told me as we left the parking lot.

          I waited in the car as she went to the door to get them. It looks like a people hospital with several floors and lots of windows, some of them lit up and some had TVs on in them.

          Jody saw my camera pointed at her as she came back to the car. She’s such a good sport about it and I love her.

          She got in, buckled up, and headed out the driveway.

          “So, this is an animal hospital?” I started.

          “Yep,” Jody agreed.

          “Then how come there’s TVs on in some rooms?” I wanted to know.

          “I don’t know. Maybe they’re lounges for the people who work here,” she guessed.

          Me? I’m gonna guess that some of the critters like the noise and light of the TV. I know people sometimes leave a TV on for their pets.

          I took more pictures on the way home.

          There’s a lot of wheels in this picture. I can count four without looking too hard.

>>>*<<<

Mice!

Those meases!

Mices!

Mouses!

I guess it’s been a while since I’ve used my Cricut machine. With gift-giving season soon upon us, I decided to get my machine out and cut some 2020 stickers. That way you always know what year I gave it to you — and they’re easy enough to peel off if you don’t want them there.

My Cricut machine sat on top of its box, next to a big ole bag of sunflower seeds. I didn’t know I was operating a bed and breakfast for the nighttime vagabonds. Other than using it to hide the evidence of their sneakery, I don’t think they hurt it. I dumped out the empty hulls, vacuumed, thumped, and finally, wiped it down. Then held my breath when I turned it on. It seems to be working okay and I made some stickers.

I moved my bag of seeds back outside into the lidded trashcan where they used to live until the raccoons found them. The meases will have a harder time getting at them there and I’ll worry about the coons later.

And my Cricut? When I finished cutting a few stickers I put it back in its box.

And speaking of mice…

I have to tell you something that puzzles me.

Friday night, as we were watching TV, I heard a mouse trap spring. I didn’t get up right away but did check it before going to bed. I found a mouse caught by his right front foot.

          “It’s just his little foot that’s caught,” I told Mike as he sat at the computer checking email.

          “Is he dead?” he wanted to know.

          I held up the trap and shook it.

          “Don’t let him get away,” Mike admonished.

          “I think he’s dead. He’s not moving.”

          Tiger was just outside the door waiting to come in. When I showed him the fresh kill, he just had to have it. I gave it to him — and made him stay outside with it.

          And I’ve been trying to figure it out since then. Why did he die if it was just his front foot caught in the trap?

>>>*<<<

          This morning, Sunday, brought a conundrum of a whole new kind.

          I was sitting at my computer, drinking coffee and working on my letter blog. I hear Mike put the recliner down. I hear the front door open and close. I know he was playing doorman to one of the cats.

          “Itsy’s headed your way,” he called.

          If she’s wandering the house it usually means she has to pee. I got up to get her but she wasn’t in the dining room heading my way. “Where is she?”

          “I don’t know. She’s not in her bed.”

          Well, that started a hunt. Mike was on his way to the fridge for some orange juice and looked for her along the way. I checked behind the furniture and in the other beds. She wasn’t there. Maybe she circled the dining room table and I just missed her, I thought. I’ve seen her do that before. I checked but she wasn’t there either.

          “Maybe she’s in the closet,” Mike suggested.

          I’ve caught her coming out of the closet before with no idea of why she’s there so it was worth a look. But she wasn’t there either. I called her. She never verbally acknowledges when I call but she’ll usually come to me. Not this time though. I rechecked the pet beds, this time turning on lights along the way but she didn’t magically appear in any of them. I called again and watched for her to come from around a corner. But no Itsy. By this time Mike had joined in the search and we both ended up standing in the middle of the living room floor, scratching our heads.

          “You don’t suppose you scooped her under the recliner when you got up, do you?” I wondered aloud.

          “I hope not.” Mike sat in his recliner and reclined it. I got down and peeked under.

          “Yep. There she is.”

          I called her but she didn’t want to step over the black bar. That gave me a chance to get the camera and snap a picture of her along with the dust bunnies and all the other detritus that lives there.

          “Come on Itsy,” I called again. But she just scratched at the black bar still not wanting to step over it. I got down on my knees, reached under, pulled her out, cuddled her, and took her out to pee.

          You just would’ve thought she’d’ve squeaked when he knocked her in under with the footrest, wouldn’t ya!

          >>>*<<<

          I have a possum using an old whistle pig hole. We had the hole stoned up so I don’t know who un-stoned it but the other day I stepped out on the back patio and saw Tiger chasing a possum. The possum scooted into the hole and Tiger sat down to wait.

          The old woodchuck hole tunneled under the foundation. On the inside there used to sit a de-barker to take the bark off the trees and it had a trough the whole way around it. Now we have stuff stored back there. One day, I was standing in the trough, looking through boxes, and the two-inch thick concrete floor of the trough collapsed down into a vee. No rebar, no supports under it. It scared me. Now I’m guessing the critters could come up inside if he so chose to do so.

          I checked the way back and see no evidence the possum has been inside, and trust me, they don’t care where they leave their poop. I set a live-trap inside and baited it with a couple of cookies but all I’ve done is feed the mice.

          “We’ll have to close it back up,” Mike said.

          “But first, let’s make sure he’s not in there. I’m not going to intentionally entomb an animal.” I don’t know how we’re going to do that but it’s on my list of stuff to get done.       

          And with the help of my little orange buddy, we’ll call this one done!