The day of the week sometimes escapes me. With no "days off," the weekend has no meaning. Mondays creep up with no warning. Without looking at the calendar, however, I know exactly when deer-hunting season opens. For some time ahead, guns being sighted in are heard all over the hills. From opening day on, deer looking for sanctuary are in my yards, front, side, and back, morning, noon, and night. Even when I don't see the deer, I find their scat on the paths and evidence that they've been browsing on the lilacs and roses.
Those few days of rain put a thin layer of green in the pastures, seeds just waiting for a tiny bit of moisture to sprout. Tank tops have replaced the long-sleeve shirts and jackets as we're back up in the high 80s here, 90s down in the valley. Extreme weather changes bring on rhinorrhea (fancy word for runny nose). "Achoo" doesn't faze the girls down in the barn, but "honk" does. They think I'm snorting the danger signal and all go on high alert. My daughter gives the daintiest little sneezes, barely audible. I, however, sound like a fog horn and always have. I've never forgiven Tommy Frenzinger back in grade school, who would yell out, "Here comes the S.S. Pea Soup around Catalina!" if I'd sneeze in class.
After reading yesterday's blog, Pete, my SoCal Kid, texted me saying, "So that's where 'polecat' comes from." (He's pretty quick on the uptake.) I didn't see Cat once yesterday. Maybe it learned its lesson after being run up the pole.
Just breaking daylight. Three deer down in the front orchard. Yup, it's hunting season for sure. I know the signs.