Wha’d’ya Know?

           “So! Wha’d’ya know?” you ask.

Another week has just flown by me! That’s what I know!

You wanna know something else? I generally cook something every day. It boggles the mind that as experienced as I am, I still make mistakes — some of them stupid!

Like this one.

I made cornbread. As soon as I pulled it out of the oven, I knew I’d done something wrong. It was flat, only half the height it should’ve been.

Trying to figure out what went wrong, I was reviewing it in my head, like playing a movie. The leavening agent is baking powder and I watched myself measure out and put a teaspoon in, wondering once again why it calls for three teaspoons instead of a tablespoon. So you don’t have to get out another spoon out for the salt, I answer myself. I capped the baking powder, put it in the cabinet, got the salt, and put a teaspoon in — and that’s when I had my A-HA! moment. The recipe calls for three teaspoons of baking powder, but I’d only put one in! It was still eatable — edible, but I ended up throwing a couple of three pieces out for the critters.

Something else I made this week was a snack that has two of my favorite ingredients in it. Cheese and cheese. It’s an easy recipe, one cup parmesan, one cup mozzarella, one egg, one teaspoon onion powder. Mix. Spread on parchment paper. Bake at three-fifty for fifteen.

“Can I share it with you?” I asked Miss Rosie.

“Peg, I can’t have cheese,” she replied.

“How about that husband of yours? Ya think he’d like some?”

“Probably. How is it?”

“It looks better than it tastes,” I answered honestly.

 Lamar tried part of a piece when I gave it to him.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“It looks better than it tastes,” he confirmed my opinion. “Cheddar might’ve been better.”

The bag I’d given him had three slices. “You don’t have to take it,” I said.

“Peg!” you exclaim.

All right! Okay! That’s a lie, but just a small one. I stumbled over the words three times before I got out something to that effect. It happens to me when I write too, only you wouldn’t notice that. I suspect it’s as my father used to say, “I let my alligator mouth overload my canary brain.” There are many ways to say something and my mouth starts before my mind has settled on which way I want to say it.

Lamar waited patiently until I got my tongue untied. “You wanna leave ‘em here?”

“No. I better take ‘em,” Lamar said. “I don’t know when I’ll get hungry again.”

This time my brain didn’t have any trouble formulating the right response. “Something’s better than nothing?”

He laughed, mostly out of politeness. “That’s right.”

And these were a disappointment, only a little better than nothing, but easy to eat on the go.

My last kitchen disappointment isn’t even my fault.

I love my yogurt maker and homemade yogurt. I portion it out into half-cup servings and we have some almost every day.

A couple of batches ago, I noticed the light on my yogurt maker wasn’t on. “Uh-oh,” I told Mike. “I think my yogurt maker quit on me.”

It’d already been plugged in for a few hours before I noticed it. Mike came to check. “It’s warm, Peg,” he said. “Maybe it’s just the light that’s out.”

I let it cook and it still makes yogurt without an ‘on’ light.

Condensation builds up under the dome, drips down the sides, and leaves a puddle on the counter. Most times I’ll just push the base aside and dry the counter. It’s usually the next day until the bowl I made the yogurt in is washed and air dried in the dish drainer. Then I’ll put the bowl back on the base, but the dome lid on, and carry it back to the shelf where it lives.

This last time I did something different. I picked up the base to move it and when I went to set it out of the way on the stove, I tipped it sideways — and water came pouring out of the unit making a mess all over the floor! “Mike!” I called. “I think I know why the light quit!”

I don’t know what this means for my yogurt maker. Maybe it’ll drown itself out, maybe it’ll keep right on working for a long time. But one thing is for sure. If it dies, I’ll have to get another one. Homemade yogurt is so good for you and contains no additives or preservatives.

>>>*<<<

My phone rang one afternoon this week. I looked at my caller ID and it was my Miss Rosie.

“You like puzzles,” she started, “would you come down and help us figure out this beach shelter Jenn bought? Lamar’s been trying to figure it out for an hour and he’s getting frustrated.”

“Sure!” I said.

We get down to the Kipps’ house and see a tent, or shelter, spread out on the ground.

“Here’s the directions,” Lamar said.

The ‘directions’ are little more than pictures, but between Mike and me, we can usually figure stuff like this out. I see some things, he sees other things, we blend ‘em together and have our answer.

This guy was a beast to figure out because we weren’t understanding the pictures but once we got our up-side up and down-side down, it went together just fine and seems so obvious in retrospect.

          “Are you going to be able to figure this out when you get to the beach?” I asked Lamar.

          “I hope so,” he said. “Otherwise, it’ll be in the trash.”

          “We could color code the connections,” I suggested and I was thinking about nail polish or something.

          “Duck tape?” Lamar suggested.

          “Sure. Do you have enough different kinds?”

          “Yeah.”

          Lamar went in and came out with a tubful of fancy-schmancy Duck Tapes.

          “Why do you have so many?” I wondered.

“Because the girls would ask what they could buy me and I’d say, ‘Duck Tape.’ Now when they ask, I say, ‘Food.’”

Every place the rods and the canvas met, we used a different pattern tape. I hope it helps instead of adding to the confusion.

“It’ll never go back in the bag again,” Miss Rosie said.

“It’ll go back in if I have to stomp it in,” Lamar said to me in an aside.

We folded, we rolled, and it went back in the bag with hardly any complaint at all. If only everything went back into its original packaging so easily.

“I’ll take a picture for proof,” I said.

Raini has been and continues to be a source of consternation for me. We were so lucky not to have had these problems with our Yorkies because from what I understand, they’re perfectly normal dog behaviors and attitudes.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

My morning peeps already know the story and my frustration so they get to hear it again. Basically, what’s going on is the two girls are trying to establish who’s going to be top dog. The older and bigger Raini gets, the more she challenges Bondi’s authority over her — and I’ve not been helping. In my defense, I’m trying but the girls aren’t cooperating.

“It should always be Bondi first,” Dr. K. advised. “Greet Bondi first, give her a treat first, let her come in or go out before Raini, feed her first.”

I’ve tried but I can’t make Bondi eat a treat first. I offer it to her and she turns away. What am I to do? I give it to Raini. I offer the next one to her and the next. Raini might eat four or five treats before Bondi’ll take one. I’ll put a dish of food down for Bondi, holding Raini back, Bondi’ll sniff it and walk away. I let Raini have it and if she eats it all, there’s nothing for Bondi — except dry kibble. I always have a dish of that sitting out.

Going in and out? I’ve made Raini go back out and wait for Bondi to come in, but there are times Bondi’ll just stand there. Well! This old woman ain’t got no time for that bull shit!

During play time, Bondi’s on top as much as she’s on the bottom.

One night, in the middle of the night, like one in the morning, I wake up to Bondi creeping up my side closest to the edge of the bed. I know what she wants. She wants under the covers, but she wants to be on the inside so I don’t accidently kick her off the bed. Likely what would’ve happened was she’d’ve crossed over my pillow, down the other side, and scratched at me to lift the blankets so she could get under. On this night, though, Raini was right behind her. I was lying on my back when Bondi went over top of my head and was coming down the other side when Raini got on my chest, head low, eyes focused on Bondi, a rumble in her chest.

“Peg! If it was one in the morning, how did you see?” you wanna know.

There was enough moonlight coming in the window that I could see and what I couldn’t see, I could sense.

They were nose to nose and the tension between them was palpable. There was going to be a dog fight right there on my face! I pushed Raini away. It’s like she was glued to my hand and came right back with it. She was all stiff and growly. I pushed her away again. She came right back again. The next time I pushed her, I sat up and pushed her right to the bottom of the bed. That gave me enough time to lift the covers and let Bondi get down under. They both settled down but it was a long time until I could go back to sleep.

“I can’t keep doing this!” I told my morning peeps. “We might have to get rid of Raini.”

We had a vet appointment to finish up Raini’s puppy shots and I was going to ask for advice. Raini’s sixteen weeks old and weighs seventeen pounds.

“She’s petite,” Dr. Lori said.

She gave me some handouts on dog behavior and some advice. Don’t let the dogs sleep in bed with you and if you do, never let them be higher on the bed than you.

Neither dog sleeps higher on the bed. Raini sleeps at the foot and Bondi sleeps either at my knees or feet.

Dr. Lori also said to monitor playtime. If Raini gets too rambunctious, give her a ten-minute timeout in her crate.

And that’s what we’ve been doing.

Along with exercise.

Every day I’ve been taking the girls for a mid-morning walk around the property that culminates at the pond. Bondi doesn’t get in the water but Raini dives right in, chasing frogs first one way then the other.

While waiting for her I take pictures.

This one is called Boneset. It’s easy to identify because the leaves grow together around the stem. That’s why they thought it was a good healing agent for broken bones.

Another name for it is Feverwort, or Sweating-plant. It was introduced to the colonists by Native Americans who used the plant for breaking fevers by means of heavy sweating.

This is Virgin’s Bower. 

And this is Goldenrod.

Goldenrod is a very versatile plant. It’s been studied by the scientific community and some of its properties have been recognized for its effectiveness when used in the treatment of illnesses of the urinary tract. Its restorative, anti-inflammatory, tonic and cleansing properties make it one of the top herbs to aid in any kidney and bladder condition, including kidney stones, nephritis, and cystitis.

In folk medicine, it’s been used for centuries to help in the treatment of a wide range of conditions such as seasonal allergies, asthma, colds and flu, tuberculosis, capillary fragility (varicose veins, hemorrhoids, hemorrhage), and even diabetes.

Externally it can disinfect and help heal wounds and various skin problems. It can also be “soaked” in oil to be used in ointments or salves to relieve pain — both muscular and rheumatic pain.

On top of all these healing properties, Goldenrod also has high amounts of antioxidants — more than green tea! And you can eat the leaves and flowers.

I actually like the beautiful flowers and lovely scent of Goldenrod, I just don’t like it taking over and crowding out all the other wildflowers.

I can’t take Raini home while she’s sopping wet, so I go to my Bergamot patch to pull some of the aforementioned Goldenrod.

I’m watching for butterflies and humbees as I approach, but only see this guy. I don’t know what kind of dragonfly he is but I know one thing about dragonflies. When you find them on a perch, such as this one is, if he flies away, all you need to do is be patient. He’ll come back to it. He let me creep quite close.

Standing there waiting for him to come back, I feel a little bump at my feet and look down to see Raini in my shadow.

“Will she chase deer?” you ask.

I expect she’ll chase anything that runs and no amount of yelling on my part can get her to quit and come back. What I’ve taken to doing is going inside.

I once left her at the pond and went to the Bergamot patch. She didn’t see me go and after a few minutes I could hear her crying. I started walking and calling her name and she came running at full speed — from the house. She’d gone home when she couldn’t find me.

I started pulling Goldenrod and tossing them where Mike would mow them and Raini helped. She’d do what Bondi used to do and grab at the weeds as I threw them.

It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt — and that someone would be me! She got to where she was anticipating and jumping higher and higher. I wasn’t paying too much attention to her, being more intent on pulling weeds, when a sharp little baby tooth sank deep into the back of my wrist. She gashed it good! Despite washing it, it’s pretty angry red today. But it’ll heal and I’ve learned my lesson when pulling weeds with Raini!

I had a bit of a scare. I was sitting on the patio, painting, with Raini nearby. We both heard the weeds rustling and she went to investigate. I assumed it was one of the cats so I wasn’t surprised when she started barking. But the barking went on and on and on. I’d finally had enough and got up to go look.

There, on the other side of the fence, lay Spitfire, motionless.

Oh, Lord. He got hit by a car and managed to drag himself to the yard, I thought. I didn’t see any blood but with that kind of trauma, you won’t. Trust me. We’ve had several hit by cars and there’s not always any outward signs of injury.

I stood there, arms folded across the top rail of the fence, and watched for any sign of movement, any signs of breath, and didn’t see any.

Raini kept up a steady stream of dialog the whole time but I tuned her out, thinking instead. Mike’s gonna be so sad! I imagine myself walking into the house and announcing, “SPITFIRE’S DEAD!” Losing one of the cats is always harder on him than it is on me and I hated to give him the bad news. Then I thought about just walking away, delaying it for as long as possible.

You might just as well get it over with, I decide, lift the gate latch, and went to his side.

Spitfire lifted his head and looked at me. “Meow,” he said.

“You faker! You scared me!” I told him and walked away in a huff.

Now speaking of dead, we’ve had great fun with the way I inadvertently spelled dead that one time. Every time the ‘d’ word is mentioned, it’s always followed by the spelling. D-E-D, dead.

“Okay,” I told Mike one day. “If bed is spelled B-E-D, why isn’t dead spelled D-E-D?”

No wonder the English language is one of the hardest to learn!

>>>*<<<

I spent several afternoons on the patio painting and finished the unicorn box.

On the inside I put three little butterflies. Since this picture was taken, I’ve added the felt to the bottom.

We keep the patio chairs tipped up against the table to keep my little climbers off the table. I wasn’t worried about leaving my brushes on the table when I should’ve been. Raini modified one of my brushes for me. She thought it should have a shorter handle. She left the bristles alone so it’s still usable.

I don’t know how she got my brush off the table.

I started work on the boy box that goes to the same home as the unicorn box.

This time I’m trying something different. I’m painting the elements before I put them on the box. I don’t foresee any problems in doing it this way and it makes it faster and easier to paint them since I don’t have to be as careful.

“What’s on the back?” you ask.

The back is gonna be sports. I have a mold for small baseballs, footballs, soccer, and basketballs. I freehanded the baseball glove, football helmet, a big football, and a basketball. I don’t know how I’m going to arrange them yet or if I’m even going to use them all. I made six motorcycles and only used four.

>>>*<<<

On the way out of our road, we’ve seen these twins several times. I’m wondering if they didn’t use to be the triplets we saw.

I’ll tell you what. For having cataracts, I do pretty well. A lot of times my brain guesses at what I’m seeing — or maybe I should say what I’m not seeing! Case in point — these logs.

As we’re approaching, I can see long dark things with orange lined down the sides. My mind thinks they’re flower boxes with marigolds or some other flower blooming. I’m thinking, how pretty, then we pass and I can see they’re not flower boxes, they’re logs!

So, what’s the orange stuff? I wonder and my mind automatically goes to the pretty orange fungus that grows on logs.

“Can we turn around?” I asked Mike.

He’s a good husband, took his foot off the gas and applied the brake as a side road came into view.

“Why?” he asked.

“I think there’s a bunch of orange fungus growing on those logs back there and I wanna get a picture.” I guess Mike hadn’t noticed them or he’d’ve dispelled my illusion right then and there.

We pass them, Mike finds a driveway and turns around again.

“It looks like spray paint to me,” he said as we pass them for the third time.

“Peg!” you exclaim. “When are you going to get your eyes fixed?”

As a matter of fact, this week I’ll go for the consultation. The gal said after that they get you in for the surgery pretty quick.

Here’s a few more road pictures for you.

Friday morning the Kipps stopped for a visit.

“Ten-thirty last night we hear a semi coming down the road,” Lamar said.

“And it was coming way too fast, too,” my Miss Rosie chipped in.

“He hit the guide rail. We went to the door and watched him try to back up and after about the third try, he got backed up far enough he could get across the bridge.

“It wasn’t until Lamar went to put mail in the box this morning that we realized he’d hit the mailbox too!” Miss Rosie said. “Can we have our mail delivered to your box until we can get a new post and box?”

“Of course!” Mike said.

“And of course, he didn’t leave a number, did he?” I asked.

Lamar laughed. “No. I could’ve gone down with the camera and taken a picture of his license number, but I might’ve gotten shot. It’s not worth it.”

After the Kipps left, Mike and I went to see the damages.

“Lamar should move his mailbox up to the other end,” Mike said. “Then it wouldn’t get hit.”

And this isn’t even the first time it was hit since it was put behind the guide rail. The front of the box extended over the rail so the mail carrier could put the mail in. Not long after the bridge guys put Lamar’s box up, someone skimmed the guide rail and hit the box, but it wasn’t so bad that Lamar had to replace it.

“And I’d just made him new numbers for his box, too!” I lamented.

Do you think I jinxed it?

Let’s call this one done!

Too Sad

 

          It always makes me a little sad when the cats bring in baby bunnies.

          Sunday night, a week ago, Spitfire brought this poor unfortunate guy in. He had to’ve jumped over the fence with the bunny in his mouth, came through the pet door, and was coming across the floor when the girls and I spotted him. Confronted with two charging dogs and a madwoman, bunny in mouth, Spitfire then jumped up on the butcher block, which is where his food dish is.

          “Let go!” I told him, and he did. I picked up this limp little guy and could feel a heart still beating. I took him out to the patio with the girls hot on my heels.

          I stood there — it was near dark — stroked his little bunny head and his little bunny side. “Listen to me, now. If ya wanna live you’re gonna hav’ta perk up a little,” I told him, feeling the softness of his fur under my fingertips. “Come on little guy,” I coached. “You can do it.”

          I’m not really present in that moment as I’m thinking about other things. What am I gonna do with ‘im? I can’t keep ‘im, he’ll just die. Rabbits don’t do well with stress and I’m sure being lugged around in the mouth of a predator is very stressful. I’m thinking of just turning him loose, but Spitfire’ll just get another one. He once cleaned out a whole nest of babies because I kept taking them away from him. Maybe if I’d’ve let him have the first one the other two would’ve been spared? Maybe I could let the dogs kill him quick like I do with mice, I think. And so it was that I missed the baby bunny’s first stirrings. All of a sudden, he gives a mighty kick, leaps from my hand and runs for it. The only problem is now there’s a Blue Heeler on his tail. The rabbit hit the fence, did a turnaround, narrowly avoiding Raini and was halfway back to me when Raini got ‘im.

          “LET HIM GO!” I’m running after her, yelling, trying to get her to let go of this poor baby rabbit, and Raini doesn’t have any problem staying ahead of this old lady.

“RAINI! LET HIM GO!”

She heads for the pet door and takes her prize inside. The chase continues with a circuit or two around the dining room table, me screaming, before Raini runs into the bedroom. I had her cornered. I stopped dead in my tracks, squinted my eyes like Clint Eastwood does before he says, “Make my day.”

Raini’s looking at me, the bunny hanging lifelessly from her mouth.

“DROP IT!” I order in mean mommy voice and for whatever reason, she did! I went to pick up the baby bunny at the same time the baby bunny decides to make a break for it. He jumps up, runs headlong into a dresser, and bounces back. He’s up and going again leaving Raini’s snapping jaws with only a mouthful of air. His frantic flight takes him into the side of another dresser, he changes course again, goes three steps, Raini nailed him — and I nailed Raini.

          “Drop it!” she didn’t. “Raini. Let it go!” This time she obeyed but I could tell by the way his head lolled that it was all too much for him. He let go of hope and life.

          “Can I have it, Mom? Can I have it please?” Raini asks with shining eyes and jubilant leaps.

          “No!” I told her and headed out to the kitchen patio.

          Spitfire just sat there, on the butcher block, taking it all in.

          “Com’on Spitfire. Come get your rabbit,” I said with sad resignation.

Rabbit in one hand, Spitfire under my arm, Bondi at my heels, Raini leaping, trying to snag the bunny, I headed out the door. I use my foot to keep the girls inside but didn’t have a hand to close the door. I set the rabbit down on the shelf and got the girls closed inside. They jumped up, barking at me through the glass.

“Not fair!” they said.

“Too bad,” I said.

That was one less thing I had to worry about now. At the fence, both hands full, I had to decide how to get the gate open. I gave a mental shrug and tossed the bunny over. At this point he isn’t going to feel a thing. I opened the gate and tossed Spitfire out. He landed near enough to his bunny that he found it.

          As soon as I opened the door the girls ran out and to the fence. There they barked, begging Spitfire to bring the rabbit back, or maybe daring him to, I don’t know.

          “Why didn’t you let the dogs have it?” Mike asked. “You let them eat mice.”

          That I do. And the funny thing about that is they hardly ever do anymore. Maybe it’s tastier when it’s forbidden fruit?

          I guess there are two reasons I didn’t let them have it. One, it was Spitfire’s and two, it was bedtime. I didn’t want to have to get up and clean up puke if it didn’t stay down. 

          I had a visitor in the house this week. This guy was big, probably an inch long. And I don’t know spiders well enough to tell you definitively what his name is. I can tell you a whole bunch of spiders that he’s not. My guess is he’s either a Wolf or Fishing spider. 

          I took him out to my flower bed. It was nice to see flowers blooming from those old seeds I’d planted. And here I thought they were all weeds!

          My Chinese Lanterns are turning red.

          And my Gladiolus! Oh my gosh! The girls and I were on the patio when we heard a branch break. Bondi looked up, Raini, too. But I’m probably the only one that realized we heard the stalk of the Glad break. I guess I should’ve staked him up, I thought.

          It was too late for him but I could’ve saved two more if only I’d taken heed and staked them up!  

          I had my sixty-third birthday this past week. My dear sweet friend, Miss Rosie showered me with gifts. A pretty garden flag, 

milkweed seeds, 

and a sifter she painted with her crazy talented, loving hands. There’s a landscape with a Monarch 

and a hummingbird on a bunch of beautiful flowers. I just love it — and her!

          I’ve got more to say about that but I want to say something about milkweed while it’s fresh in your mind.

          Milkweed is the only plant that Monarch caterpillars will eat. But there are different kinds of milkweed, and this I knew. Mostly I knew that there was the regular stuff that I have, plus I knew there was a swamp milkweed. And there are other plants that are in the milkweed family like Joe Pye and Butterfly Weed.

          My friend J.D. took the time to transcribe an article about the endangered Monarch and milkweed because he doesn’t have a copier. What I didn’t know, and what J.D. didn’t know, was that there’s a kind of milkweed that’s invasive and blooms longer. They think that’s keeping the Monarchs from migrating when they should, so then they die. They recommend that if you have this Tropical Milkweed, that you cut it down in the fall.

          Now, back to birthdays…

          Miss Rosie sent me a card that said something to the effect that it’s my birthday, eat cake.

          Cake?

          I have a recipe for a very moist cocoa cake that takes a cup of coffee, a cup of milk, and a cup of oil! That’s a lot of cups! I don’t care much for chocolate but I like this recipe pretty good. I haven’t made it in a long time, I thought. Now’s a good reason to make it.

          So, I made it — and the center fell.

          I know there are several reasons the center of your cake falls. I read about it once but don’t remember what they are.

          Leaves more room for the frosting, I think and go on with life. Nobody I know is gonna care the cake fell.

          The frosting recipe that accompanies this cake recipe is made with a base of cooked flour and milk, chilled, mixed with butter, shortening, a little granulated sugar, and vanilla. It’s kinda like the cream in the middle of those cake rolls.

          “Every time I make a frosting with granulated sugar, it comes out gritty,” my beloved Aunt Marie told me once.

          “You’ve just gotta beat it long enough,” I told her. This one calls for you to stand there mixing it for ten minutes!

          I made it and it came out exactly like it was supposed to, but I wasn’t happy with it. I should’ve made peanut butter, I thought. Who doesn’t love chocolate and peanut butter together? I decided to pull a little out, add a dab of peanut butter and see what it tastes like. It was smooth and creamy and delish! I Googled how much peanut butter is in peanut butter frosting and most recipes use one cup so that’s what I put in.

          Now, I don’t need a whole cake for myself and Mike isn’t eating simple carbs or sweets.  

          “Will you take some?” I asked the Kipps.

          “Sure!” they said.

          Then I messaged the neighbors on the other side of me. “I made a cake. Can I bring you some?” I asked Steph Robinson.

          “Yes you can!” she said.

          So I got out my nifty four-cup storage containers and filled ‘em full of cake.

          One for the Kipps, one for the Robinsons, and two for my freezer — still more than I need but I could space it out over a period of three, four days — weeks! I mean weeks!

          I took the Kipps down theirs. Miss Rosie lifted the corner and stuck her finger in the icing.

          “Mmmmm. How did you make this? It’s not like the kind I make,” she said.

          So then I explained, in more detail than was strictly necessary, how I made it.

          “You shouldn’t have to make your own birthday cake,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to make you one.”

          “It’s really okay,” I told her. I wanted to make this cake. And honestly, why would Miss Rosie even think about making me a cake when she knows I’m still trying to lose a few pounds.

          >>>*<<<

          My dryer quit. I think I told you that. The laundry was piling up, so I got the overflowing basket from the bathroom and dumped it into the already full basket in the laundry room.

          Raini was shadowing me like she always does. After I dumped the basket, she stuck her nose in the pile.

          “Leave it alone!” I told her and went to return the basket to the bathroom.

          Raini wasn’t following me anymore but I didn’t think anything of it. I started a load of jeans and went to see what Raini was up to. Just like a kid, if they’re not making noise, they’re up to no good. I looked outside for Raini and see something in the yard.

Oh Lord! What’s in the yard now? I think. It’s about the same color as a possum and my mind spun off into different scenarios of how it could’ve ended up in the yard.

          I go walking out and see that someone, likely someone whose name begins and ends with Raini, took one of my brassieres from the laundry basket!

          That stinker!

          And that’s not the last story you’ll hear about that stinker this week either.

          I’m working really hard trying to teach her manners. Don’t bite and don’t jump up on me when I come in, are the two most pressing ones. My legs look like I ran through a bramble patch with shorts on and she nipped my nose again, making it bleed.

          We came in and she was so excited!

          “Don’t jump!” I tell her pushing her down.

          Well, she’d opened her mouth to bite at the same time I was pulling my hand back and her tooth sliced right through the side of my finger.

          I bled.

          “See what you did!” I told her.

          She didn’t care. She was just happy we were home.

          I had to take the laundry to the clothesline to dry. “I’m taking Raini with me,” I told Mike as I went out the door. “Without a leash. I’ll live with whatever consequences there are.”

          I called Raini and she followed. I dropped the basket at the clothesline and took her to the pond. She went right in.          

           A frog on the other side of the pond croaked and made a splash as he jumped in the water. Raini went bounding after him.

          I didn’t try to boss her too much. I trusted her to stay close as Heelers do. I didn’t say a word as I went to the clothesline and started hanging the jeans.

          Raini followed, sniffed around a little, then went out into the field. She wasn’t gone long before she came racing back, made two circles around me, the basket, and the clothesline pole, then laid down at my feet and rolled around on the grass, drying herself.

          When the clothes were hung, I said. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

          We get close to the house when she takes off after Sugar, our last remaining feral cat.

          Since Raini was already heading toward the back, I decided to take her in through the kitchen patio, stopping to rinse her off before she could track all the pond mud through the house.

          Well! Let me tell you about Heelers! They can be stubborn. They’re strong, even as a pup like Raini, and if they don’t want something, they don’t want it, and you can’t do anything about it. And Raini did not want to be rinsed off!

          Trying to be clever and creative, I got her tub out and started to fill it with water. Raini can’t resist the hose. She loves to snap at the stream of water. While she was doing that, I managed to spray her off a little. Then I got a tray of ice cubes and dumped them in the water. I figured she’d go wading for them. She didn’t. She managed to fish ‘em all out from the side and drop ‘em in the grass.

          That stinker. 

          Now that Raini is getting so much bigger than Bondi, she’s starting to challenge her authority. However, I’ve seen Bondi get on Raini a couple of times and really mean it. In those cases, Raini submits. But mostly Bondi is giving Raini her own way. I’ve seen her refusing to eat. If I hand feed her, she’ll take it. If I put it on the floor in front of her, she won’t eat it. I’ll let Raini go and Raini’ll eat it all, which is why I was trying to get Bondi to eat first.

          Raini has chewed Bondi’s Seresto collar off. I think I can reattach it with a small piece of wire or something but I haven’t done it yet. I’m gonna guess if I put it back on, Raini’ll just chew it off again.

          Then Friday night I saw Raini dragging Bondi across the floor by her throat. Bondi didn’t cry so I guess she wasn’t hurting her, but I sure didn’t like it.

          Raini is a handful and there are times Mike and I regret getting such a high energy dog. But now that I have her, I feel like she’s our responsibility. And I’m really hoping that once she passes out of the puppy stage that she’ll be better.

          I’ve been getting on the treadmill all week. Raini got on and walked with me at three point three miles an hour. She likes that better than going slow and it’s just a fast walk or slow jog for me. She stayed on for about ten minutes straight and I was so glad because then she was tired. But after that, she hasn’t shown much interest in running with me. She’ll get on for a minute or two then off again. I keep going. She might jump on and off a few times but has never repeated that ten-minute stretch again.

          I know I said I was going to take them outside as much as I could but discovered there are advantages to using a treadmill. For one, I won’t eat dust when a car passes. For another, we’re not at the mercy of the weather. I also don’t have to wear people-presentable clothes; I can go in my around-the-house stretchies. And lastly and most importantly, I can go barefoot.

          “What’s Michael been up to this week?” you wanna know.

          Well, this week, we put in pond liner. Mike ordered sheets that were twenty by twenty-five feet and cut them in half.

          We covered a hundred and sixty-four feet by ten of the pond side. We’re hoping that was the leaking area and this will greatly reduce, if not eliminate our water loss.  

         “Who climbed down in the pond?” you ask.

          I did. It wasn’t too bad. There’s not much water in the pond and I only got stuck in the mud a couple of times. Once, I thought I’d never be able to get my boot out, but with a little persistence, I pulled it free of the sucking goo.

          The bank is steep so Mike put the extension ladder in for me.

          We should’ve done this right after Mike scraped the sides, then I wouldn’t’ve had to pull and chop weeds. But I was resistant to doing it all. I was worried about the frogs. When he was talking pond liner, I thought he meant the whole pond and not just the sides. There’s plenty of places for the frogs to escape to, besides, “They’ll come back,” Mike said.

          And it looks like they’re accepting it pretty well.

          I’m hoping to eventually add a rock wall to the top of the plastic, but it’s done for now, and we can sit back and wait for the pond to fill. It used to be spring fed but the spring dried up ten or more years ago and now we depend on rain.

>>>*<<<

          Mike’s monolith isn’t quite done but we went ahead and put the numbers on the address marker.

          I used my Cricut machine to make a stencil. The sign vinyl stuck to the rock better than I thought it would.

With a stencil, it’s better to use a dauber rather than a brush. That way you don’t brush paint under the stencil.

“Who picked the color?” you ask.

Not me. Mike thought it would show up well plus it’s Miss Rosie’s favorite color. Maybe a black outline would enhance it? 

>>>*<<<

          I haven’t had much of a chance to work on my unicorn box this week. I still have to finish the butterflies on the back cover and most of the front cover is unpainted. (I’m saving the unicorn for last.) But I wanted to break up all that pink, so I moved on to the flower garden.

          I’m sitting on my kitchen patio painting and dreaming of the next box I’m gonna make, a box I could be working on already if I hadn’t’ve put so many details on this box! I should make them and let people paint them themselves, I think. Maybe they’d like to paint it and that would give it more of a personal touch. Something to think about.

>>>*<<<

          Miss Rosie and I have been waiting for the movie Where the Crawdads Sing to come to a theater near us and this week it came to the Dietrich in Tunkhannock. We made plans to go to the afternoon show on Thursday. Lamar read the book and was interested in seeing the movie, too.

          “Is it something I would like?” Mike asked, and I gave him the plot line.

          It’s been more than six years since we’ve gone out for a movie, so Mike decided to come along. And bonus, he didn’t have to drive!

          “Did you like it?” you wanna know.

          I have to be honest with you. I don’t know any other way to be. But I did not like the movie. And I know I’m the oddball. Both the Kipps liked the movie and nearly everyone else who saw the movie liked it as well. I’m thinking if I hadn’t’ve read the book first, I might’ve enjoyed the movie more.

          We stopped at the ice cream place on our way out of Tunkhannock and had — what else? — ice cream!

            “I’m buying,” my sweet Miss Rosie said.

“No!” Mike said. “I’m buying.”

“I’m buying,” Miss Rosie insisted. “It’s a late birthday gift for Peg since she had to make her own cake.”

Lamar? He doesn’t care who buys, even if it’s him.

Me? I don’t care who buys either, even if it’s me.

The argument was ongoing as we got out of Lamar’s car. Not knowing who was gonna win, I pulled a few bills from my bag, stuffed ‘em in my pocket, and left my bag and phone in the car — with the doors unlocked and the windows open. I wasn’t worried. We’d have the car in sight the whole time and I thought we were going back to the car after we got our ice cream anyway.

Rosie won. I got my favorite, vanilla. Rosie got a Sundae, and when Lamar ordered a banana split, I knew we wouldn’t be going back to the car, at least not right away. There was a picnic table close by and I could still see the car from there.

“What did Mike get?” you ask.

Mike didn’t get anything because he’s avoiding sugars and simple carbs. Did I tell you that before? It seems like I did but maybe it was only in my morning love note that I talked about it. Mike’s brought his A1C down five points in the last six months by doing that and is officially no longer pre-diabetic — something he’s really happy about.

Mike’s PA is proud of him. “Most people say they’ll change their eating habits then don’t or they don’t stick with it,” she said. “You’ve been doing it long enough that I’d say it’s a lifestyle for you now.”

Mike has committed to continuing with this new lifestyle.

We got our order. “There’s a table over here,” I said.

“In the sun‽” Miss Rosie said.

I took a few steps and glanced around back. “There’s more back there.”

We found a table that was more shaded and sat and chatted as we ate our frozen treats.

I’m … I’m … what? I’m something, that’s for sure. And I’m also sure I’m not everyone’s cup o’ sunshine. Mike and Lamar were carrying on a conversation that didn’t involve me and I did what I always do. I got up, wandered away, and started taking pictures. If you didn’t know me better, you might think I was rude.

Back behind the ice cream stand where the picnic area was, I realized I couldn’t see the car anymore and I hadn’t been keeping an eye on it anyway. I don’t believe we’re in a high-crime area, but that doesn’t mean no crime. I didn’t need my purse snatched and have to deal with lost credit cards and stolen ID. I glanced over where my peeps sat and they were still deep in conversation.

            I was closer to this side of the building so I walked on out to the car and got my purse. I was heading back and see something our sheltering tree was hiding from us. A storm was moving in.

I get back to the table at the same time a great wind blows. Leaves and dust fly, trees bend. Mike gets up, the wind nearly knocking him off balance as he grabs the table for support.

Lamar’s up and helping my Miss Rosie up. I’m sure if he hadn’t’ve been holding on to her that she’d’ve gone the same way as her shirt went. Over her head! 

          We get back to the car before the rains came but once they came, it poured!

          “I bet my laundry's getting wet,” I said.

          “Yeah, if it rains on our side of the mountain,” Miss Rosie pointed out.

          And that’s true. There were times we’d be coming home from someplace, hit rain, but it would be dry as a bone at our house.

          In this case, my laundry got wet.

          “If I’d’ve known all I had to do to make it rain was hang laundry on the line,” I told Miss Rosie, “I’d’ve done it long before this!”

          She laughed. “Yeah, well, I’ve been hanging mine out all summer and it hasn’t tempted it to rain!”

          >>>*<<<

          I got a few bug pictures for you this week.

          This is a Great Spangled Fritillary Butterfly. Their wingspan is two and a half to three and a half inches.

This critter you might not know. This is a Robber Fly.

Their name reflects their notoriously aggressive predatory habits. They wait in ambush and catch their prey in flight, feeding mainly on other insects including other flies, beetles, butterflies and moths, various bees, ants, dragonflies and damselflies, ichneumon wasps, grasshoppers, and some spiders.

          On my morning love call to our neighbor Sally, she invited me over to take a picture of a baby tree frog that was perched on a lily outside of her kitchen window.

          “Isn’t he cute!” she gushed with a big smile on her face.

            And I must agree, “He sure is!”

“I hardly ever see tree frogs!”

“I hardly ever see ‘em either,” I agreed with her again.

          I keep checking my Bergamot patch for Hummingbird moths. I’ve not seen any yet this year. I did find this guy, though. You’ll recognize him as the Tiger Swallowtail. They have a wingspan of three to five inches.

          I noticed that there’s quite a bit of Goldenrod growing in my Bergamot patch and in the field beyond. With no forethought, I started pulling weeds. I really should’ve taken the time to get my gloves because I cut my pinky on one especially tough stem. Then I put my gloves on and pulled until I couldn’t pull anymore.

          “Would you mow the rest of the field?” I asked my handsome mountain man. Normally I don’t ask him to do that until the fall but I’m trying to get the Goldenrod under control by cutting it before it seeds. “Just cut around the Bergamot.”

          Mike, being a good husband, went out and mowed it for me. By the time I’d gotten my camera and gotten around, he had it done.

          “I saw three baby bunnies run out of the field. They went that way,” Mike said pointing off to the left, “and the mother went that way,” and he pointed in the opposite direction.

          I shrugged. “The mothers are very good about finding their babies again.”

          “They were little,” Mike said. “Probably only about as big as your hand.”

          Famous last words.

          That night I’m in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, when I hear Bondi growling. She’s playing tug o’ war with Raini, I think.  Then I glance down and there’s Raini right by my feet.

          Bondi’s growls continue and the reason is a conundrum, a mystery, a puzzle. When I get out to the living room and turn on the overhead light, there sat Bondi with a baby bunny in her mouth, warning Spitfire away with her growls, when he’s likely the one who brought it in in the first place!

          “Let go!” I tell Bondi and she drops it.

           He was gone. I don’t have any other information than that. I don’t know if Spitfire brought it in alive and Bondi killed it, or if it was already dead when she got it from him.

          Regardless, ain’t nobody eating rabbit in this house and leaving fur and guts for this old woman to clean up!

“Is this one from the nest up in the field?” I asked Mike.

“It looks like it’s about the right size,” he said.

I took the bunny out, and just like before, put it and Spitfire on the other side of the fence.

          We weren’t in bed twenty minutes when Bondi gets out of bed and runs to the kitchen door. There she commences to bark up a storm.

          “She can’t have to go out,” I told Mike who was watching TV. “She peed right before we came to bed.”

          The barking continues so I get up to go let her out. But before I do, I go out to check the patio. Spitfire was there. I’m just pulling the door closed behind me when I hear thunk. Another little baby bunny ran headlong into the door, turned, ran across my bare toes, and down the wall, behind all of my junk.

          I went back inside, turned off the porch light, leaving the bunny to his fate, picked Bondi up, and with Raini on my heels, we went back to bed.

          “Maybe he’ll be able to hide,” I told Mike. But in the morning, there was bunny fur on the patio.

          It’s too sad, but I have to remember that nature provides enough bunnies for the cats — and the hunters — to get a few.

          Let’s call this one done.