A Passing Fancy

Seasons come and seasons go.  That applies to goats as well as calendars, NASCAR, and football.  The girls are back to being just friends again.  Sheila and Tessie go to their own rooms at night now and just hang out together in the daytime.  It was getting pretty intense and embarrassing there for awhile.  Sheila once again wants her head and ears rubbed every morning before I leave the pen.  Tess ignores me as usual.

I can see the sliver of moon and bright-shining Venus in the dark morning sky, so the rain that is predicted for later today hasn't yet pulled the cloud cover over.  Hard to believe, but snow is scheduled for next week.  Yesterday was lovely, and Stove is feeling neglected.  He'll get his turn.  It is, after all, the season.

A mammogram is scheduled for tomorrow, which seems a bit redundant to me after the all-clear CT/PET scan, but I have to go into town for the Holter monitor anyhow.  I'm just glad the two could be combined in one trip.  I'll probably hit Wally World, too.

The Patriots lost the last Super Bowl, but I'm going to put my nickel on them again on Sunday.  I usually give Clay first choice on the games, but this time I'm adamant.  (He's been kicking my butt lately and I've made him financially independent five cents at a time.)

There it is, that oh-so-soft touch on my shoulder that is Ralph's signal he wants to come over onto my lap.  It's how we start every morning, a grand way to begin the day.