"It's not nice to fool Mother Nature," say the vultures. They are focused on the huge mound of fleece outside the pen (I haven't figured out how I'm going to dispose of it). They know that "sheep" hasn't moved, but it hasn't got the distinctive smell that tells them it's dinnertime.
It was 80 degrees at 8 a.m. yesterday, a pretty good indicator of what was coming. My sensor is on the north side of the house in a spot that never gets direct sunlight. Aarrgh. On days like that, anything that needs doing must get done early or it won't get done, period. I even declined an invitation to go wine tasting at a mini-festival put on by a few local wineries. (Cam told me later there was great food and bands. I was happy for her.) For me, after sweating buckets down in the barn, it was a day to sit and cheer Dale Earnhardt, Jr.'s, win and then indulge in a "Lonesome Dove" marathon. "Sit" being the definitive term here. Bess and the cats moved from tiles in the entryway to the stone hearth. It's cooler downstairs, but wild horses couldn't have dragged Ralph down there again. Once the south end of the house was in shade, I brought Bessie's wading pool out from the barn and filled it. Much as I love her, I wasn't about to stand in the sun to do that job. By this afternoon, the water will be warm, if not hot. In the meantime, I sprayed her to cool her off and stood under the water myself. I'm not above playing in the sprinkler, either.
Hot weather is just not nice.