Sometimes I think Pearl is demented. Normally a rather sedate cat, when we are outside together, she has had a habit since kittenhood of running in front of me, throwing herself on the ground and flopping around like a fish out of water...a catfish! I have no idea of the purpose of this writhing and twisting, but it cracks me up just the same. On our way to do chores or just going for a walk, she repeats this maneuver again and again. She never does this in the house. It isn't that she wants to be petted, the way a dog will turn belly up for a tummy rub. Who knows what cats think.
I'd wanted to get a picture of Poppy yesterday, but she raised her head at the last moment and ruined the effect. Poppy is a sheep of generous proportions, and when she lies flat out she looks just like a beached whale in the pen. One doesn't expect these piscatorial references on a farm (unless it's a fish farm).
Both cats usually go out after dinner for a nightly foray and come in when I call them at bedtime. Pearl dutifully came when called last night, but Frank was a no-show. The temperature had dropped again and I knew another storm was due, so I dawdled around, opening the door periodically and calling his name. One starts to worry about an encounter with a predatory night creature. If Pearl knew where her brother was, she wasn't telling. About the time I was ready to give up, Frank appeared on the porch. My concern had evidently been transmitted to Bessie Anne, who had to sniff and lick him all over as soon as he stepped into the house. Once she determined he was alright, we could all troop off to bed. And so ended a rather uneventful day at Farview.