Big Blowhard

The bucket of used wipes continues to be emptied daily.  How many blankets can the colony of barn mice and squirrels use?  I fear that the locals have started a black-market blanket business, an underground operation, as it were (pun intended).  Trash Guy is going to think I'm not doing my part for his job security if there are no wipes to donate.

In the seventies, singer Jim Croce wrote a song with the line, "You don't spit into the wind."  I'm going to add to that good advice:  when a strong wind blows, check the direction first before pitching a bucket of goat poop over the fence.  I'm just saying.

There was a lull when I wrote the entry yesterday, but by the time I got down to the barn the wind had kicked up several notches and the girls were happy, happy, happy chasing leaves.  Topping off the trough and waterers was a damp procedure as the wind blew the water from the tap and hose sideways.  Like campfire smoke, the spray followed no matter which side I was on.  The power blipped on and off all day, so often that I gave up changing the time on the digital clocks.

Pete came out of the CCU yesterday and may go home in another day or two.  Whew!

Did I mention it was windy?