First, let me just say now that I’m moved into the house (on five acres across from a golf course): I did NOT realize how die-hard some folk are about their golf game. As I write this it’s a whopping 37 degrees Fahrenheit and alternating between rain and sleet. Yet there are multiple groups of golfers out there with their sad little umbrellas that obviously don’t do a damn thing in this wind and rain.
And Minerva delights in notifying them, at full volume, that THIS IS MY YARD AND YOU CAN’T BE HERE MOVE ALONG MOVE ALONG HEYHEYHEYHEYHEY MOVE ALONG I CAN BARK ALL DAY YOU KNOW.
There’s other unpredictable excitement in living in the country again. It’s been twenty years since I moved to the city, and I’m SO FUCKING HAPPY to be out where I can see stars and woods and a family of deer traipse through to drive the dogs insane every couple of days, and my neighbors can’t look across the parking lot/yard/road into my house.
Except THIS guy:
Ferbs decided the first evening the best place to nap was next to the dog run, leaning against the fence. Leaning. Against. The. Fence. Sigh.
Minerva…protested vehemently. Ragnar’s hackles went up and he was on HIGH! ALERT! bouncing his hefty frame like a boxer ready to fight, and managed to stick his nose through the fence into poor Ferb’s fur. At which point his hackles came down and he looked very confused.
Ferbs, of course, played possum, as possums getting screamed at by two ridiculously loud dogs are wont to do. He didn’t recover until the next morning, despite SK and I taking the dogs back in the house and refusing to let them bark like idiots. He seems to live in one of the many woodpiles in our yard, and we’re happy to have him there. Possums are tick and bug eaters and they don’t generally carry rabies. Yes please, hang out you lumbering little Muppet-looking weirdo (Ferbs I mean, not SK, who decidedly does not lumber OR look remotely Muppet-like…but possums look like they belong in Labyrinth, which is the second time I’ve used that reference in the past two days. Huh.)
And then, we have this idiot:
fAngus isn’t quite as comfortable at this house as he was in the last: he likes to go out on the deck but is (thankfully) terrified of getting too far away. Since this is farm country with MANY hawks, bald eagles, and horned owls hunting I’m happy he’s too scared to wander far. I’m less happy he’s decided the roof is a place to hang.
The other day that dumbass jumped OFF the deck railing (as you can see, it’s level to the garage roof and the kennel fence is below) INTO THE DOG’S KENNEL. Why? Because he needed to use up a life, apparently. And of course when I ran to the garage door to let him in he sauntered by, tail up, like he’s perfectly fine and why on earth would anyone be upset? He’s still a furry little jerk. Thank Goddess he didn’t break anything.
In other furry little jerk news, Minerva’s taken to lying sideways across the bed (we each have about 6” of space on the edges if we lie on our sides). Occasionally SK pushes her until she moves all the way to my side or just gets off the bed, but usually that rottenpants teenage dog just waits to steal my spot when I get up.
The other wild life in this house comes in more humanoid forms. TWO of them have a habit of thieving my cell and taking selfies when I’m not paying attention or, in the cases below, left the car for a sec to pick up dinner.
Speaking of the twins, I have another missive pending publication. I’m on vacation the next couple of days, so I’ll set it up to publish while I’m out so Stone can entertain in my absence. Good luck.