Drip Dry Day

Milking is a miserable chore when it's hot and there's no two ways about it.  Stopping to top off the water trough and sluice down face, neck, and arms on the way back to the house is mandatory.  Even so, I'm dry before I hit the shade from the oak in the driveway.

The window A/C in the bedroom cranked away while I balanced the checkbook and payed bills online but could do little more than stir the air in the afternoon.  It was better than nothing.  Bessie went out several times to wade in her pool, keeping to the shade to protect her poor little paws on the hot deck.  I pour water over her back to help cool her off.  She gives one shake and still is nearly dry by the time she's back in the house.

The few ants in the kitchen before have turned into tiny black rivers here, there, and everywhere.  I should be used to their annual appearance, but they drive me wild.  I stocked up on ant spray on my last trip to town and spritz a stream every time I go into the kitchen but they keep coming.

The most ambitious undertaking of the day was laundry.  I'm perfectly willing to let the machine do the hard work.  Not wanting to go out to hang clothes in direct sun during the middle of the afternoon, I waited.  At five o'clock it was ninety-five degrees when I hung the first load and put in the second to wash.  In that short period of time the clothes on the line were bone dry, and I'm talking heavy denim bibbies.  All three loads were dry before the critters' bedtime.

The pullets are big enough to transfer to the big pen.  Their voices, like teenage boys, have changed from the peeping and cheeping to deeper clucks.  I started the process of clipping wings last night and caught three of the six.  It's not easy when I'm bent over and crouched in their low, wire-covered pen, and they're fast little boogers.  I ended the day as I began, dripping sweat.

It's much cooler this morning.  So far.