No, I haven't traded bibbies for a frou-frou mode of dress. Ruffles is a small mouse with one frilled ear who lives in a burrow by the corner of the inside door in the milking room. She's gotten braver over time. It used to take several false starts before she could work up the courage to dash across the room to where the goats carelessly drop grain from their breakfast bowl. Now she pops her head up, gives me a good-morning glance, and goes about her business. Yesterday it would seem she was redecorating her home and had pulled a fresh wipe into the opening. Since I often mention the housekeeping habits of the underground inhabitants, I had decided to take a picture when I'd finished the last milker. As it happened, after escorting Sheila out I turned, only to find that Ruffles had pulled the wipe entirely into her house and there was nothing to photograph. You'll just have to take my word.
Sadly, the little lamb who needed milk didn't make it through the night. Those of us who work with animals know this happens, but I don't think we ever take it lightly. It hurts.
My son, Dave, is coming up today. In the last week the weather has turned from turtlenecks to tank tops, and for a motorcycle rider that's just too good to pass up. The ride through green hills on country roads on a warm day is gorgeous. Another drop in temperature and heavy rain is predicted for all next week, so I'm particularly glad he's taking advantage to come up now. I'm simply looking forward to his company.
I wonder if Ruffles got word that cold weather is coming again and that's why she pulled in a fresh blanket.