Don't Tell Bess

For the working world, this is a long, three-day weekend.  One would think that, being retired, every day would be a day off; however, when one has livestock there is no such thing as a weekend.  I can't remember the last time I slept in until 6 a.m. as I did this morning, and I feel like I'm running late even though I have no set schedule.

Bessie Anne snores and has for some time.  Being asleep, I don't know whether I do or not, and she never says.  I'm used to hearing that gentle sound.  Yesterday my constant companion evidently had a problem in her gastrointestinal tract and was under a gas attack.  Don't tell her I said so, but she quietly tooted all day long, not loud enough to wake her from her nap(s), but enough to get my attention.  At least she gave fair warning, much better than the silent-but-deadly type.  Since her diet never changes, I can't imagine what caused the problem.

It's the time of year when I feel like I'd really like to fill all the pots on the deck with flowers, but it would be an exercise in futility.  Robert the Raider and his cohorts continue to run rampant on the deck, digging in the dirt and knocking pots over.  I might as well just feed the boogers dollar bills and not have to clean up their mess.  Sigh.

Well, like the White Rabbit said, "I'm late, I'm late!," and I'd best get a move on.