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Blank page.  Blank mind.  One of those days when I must leave it to the reader to fill in the blanks.

I Wonder

What is it, I wonder, about putting fresh sheets on the bed that makes cats crazy?  Ralph is not the first cat I've had go bonkers as I make the bed; Frank and his predecessor, Victor, also went mad as March hares on laundry days.  Female felines like Celeste and Pearl seem to understand this is a chore and not a game and ignore the whole process, letting staff do the work.  Ralph pounced on every crease and corner as I spread the bottom sheet, claws out as if he were fighting demons.  He played hide-and-seek as the top sheet floated down.  It's very difficult to make a smooth bed with a large lump tunneling across like a high-speed mole, and tucking in must be done quickly before I'm tagged as It.

What is it, I wonder, that makes the bathroom a favorite meeting spot for cats?  Privacy is a thing of the past.  Going potty is considered a social event.  They will come out of a sound sleep to join me, even if I try to sneak in.  We use our respective litter boxes, and sometimes Ralph and Celeste have their buns in their box at the same time, facing in different directions.  Personally, I think this is carrying togetherness a bit too far, but then, I'm not a cat.

Alpha and Omega

Yesterday ended as it had begun, with a light pattering of rain.  How welcome it was to walk to the barn with skin damp from an external source for a change.  Not enough to even settle the dust, anything falling from the sky discombobulates the goats so our rehearsed routine went kablooey.  At first they didn't want to go outside, and then they broke back into the milking room twice while I was cleaning the stalls.  I heard my neighbor who was working in his vineyard laughing as I was yelling, "Bad goat!  Bad goat!"  (And other epithets.)

Another ten-degree drop in temperature brought us down into the eighties, wahoo!  Absolutely invigorating!  I know it can't last, but I can most certainly enjoy it while it's here.  For days, the most exercise Bessie had was moving from one spot to another, trying to find someplace cooler to sleep.  Yesterday she took herself on a little walk all the way down the drive and back, checking the perimeter, as it were.

The battle with the army of ants continues.  There must be a huge colony in the walls, as they come out of the electric sockets and light fixtures.  I kill them by ones and by hundreds.  Being in the kitchen, I can't use spray on the counters so swipe them away with a sponge and drown the enemy.  Paranoid, I peer under cabinets, behind utensils, and along baseboards every time I walk through that room, breathing a sigh of relief when none are found and cussing a blue streak while reaching for sponge or spray can when one of those long black trains is spied.  This is an annual event.  One of these days they will go as quickly as they came.  I hope that day comes soon.

There was no problem in putting the girls to bed last evening.  They beat me to the barn.  Ants notwithstanding, it was a good day.

Dressed Down

Scrub jays may not have the brilliant plumage or flashy crest of their cousins, the Steller's jays, but they take the prize for chutzpah.  Scrubs are among the variety of sparrows, etc., that I clump together as "barn birds."  The barn is really a noisy place on any given morning as the birds gather for a klatch, but it is the jays that fly into the milking room and help themselves from the feed bucket; the sparrows have better manners.  Tending to business, I was cleaning one of the back stalls yesterday when a young scrub landed on the wire grate covering the window opening and proceeded to give me "what for."  I've not had such a dressing down in ages.  I'm not sure if my offense was my simple presence on his turf or he was complaining because I was slow laying down breakfast, but it was clear he was not happy with me.  His harangue was loud and long, lasting the entire while I was in the stall.  I tried to explain I'd be done and out of his way in a minute, but he wasn't having any of it and continued to screech at me until I took bucket, shovel and rake and left.  You've not been scolded until you've been scolded by a scrub jay.

While not ready to put on a parka, the ten-degree drop in temperature to 93 yesterday felt almost cool.  It was quite wonderful not to drip sweat while milking, although the humidity was higher because of the cloud cover and caused a film of clinging moisture on the body.  (I don't know which is worse.)  With the change in weather, I summoned enough ambition to hunt for Ralph's missing hamster toy.  I discovered his catnip mouse halfway down the stairwell.  While crawling around the rooms, looking under and behind furniture, I realized that Ralph was creeping alongside, joining the search.  I found several of my pigs he'd knocked off shelves while he was redecorating, but we never did find his hamster.

Tough It Out

I'm a firm believer in exercise.  No!  Not for me; anyone who knows me also knows it's inconceivable I'd do such a thing.  However, I run a boot camp for plants, indoors and out.  I think it's healthy for the green and growing to stretch the limits of endurance.  The rules are explained to every new plant brought to the farm.  There will be no mollycoddling.  This is no place for wimps.  They must learn to suck it up and they'll be the stronger for it.  Flexibility is a must.  They will be deprived and rewarded.  Just when they think they'll die from lack of water, bent over and touching their virtual toes in defeat, they will be given the life source and spring back time and again.  Faded foliage will not be tolerated; chlorophyll is their personal responsibility.  Should they be of the flowering variety, they will be allowed to keep the results of their efforts as I prefer to see blossoms on the plant rather than cut and put in a vase; that should be consolation enough.  I do believe in second chances and on those occasions when a plant appears to give up, I maintain hope and wait for resurrection.  It might take as much as a year for one that seemingly expired to quit hiding from the program and put out a green leaf; I'm very patient.

As I look out the window this morning, I see that the deck plants are wilting.  It's obvious that they need another pep talk (and a drink of water).  In the meantime:  "One and two, and one and two!  Touch those toes!  Bend and stretch!  No whining there in the big pot, get a grip!"  I can see I've got my job cut out today.

Au Revoir, Downton

Extreme heat robs me of ambition and energy.  I've been able to escape by going to Downton Abbey.  I was raised at a time when Emily Post and Miss Manners ruled, before Dear Abby and the tell-all gossip columns.  As children, we were taught the protocols of behavior that would be expected throughout our lives, protocols that may seem stultifying now but put secure boundaries in place then.  Boiled down to essentials, it seems to me that courtesy was the underlying foundation.  In the process of progress, some of that has been lost, I fear.  At any rate, I've appreciated that aspect of life at Downton.  The women upstairs have worn some of the most beautiful clothing I've ever seen, dresses that made me gasp (just as their corsets took their breath away).  Men in evening dress, ohmigosh, so elegant even a homely man looks handsome.  I'm just glad I don't have to starch and iron those shirtfronts.  Romance, intrigue, comedy, murder, wonderful characterizations (I even enjoy hating smarmy Thomas), my time at Downton has been so pleasant.  Years ago when I read Shogun by James Clavell, I so loved the story that I put the book down before the last chapter because I didn't want it to end.  Of course, I did read it all later.  I feel the same way about Downton Abbey and so it was with great reluctance that I watched the last episode available to me yesterday.  I'm so glad to know there is another season waiting in the wings.  Where shall I go now?

Quail are such shy little birds.  It took years for colonies to move on to the property, so it was a great surprise when I saw a covey cruising through the herb garden yesterday.  I've never had them come so close to the house before.  Cam and I were mentioning the other day that we've not seen many baby turkeys this year.  There was one train of youngsters that ran through here some long while back, but that was it until this morning.  Just before dawn about ten poults, maybe a month or two old, came up the hill with their nannies.  Nice to see.

Temperature dropping into the 90s is predicted for this week.  That may not seem like much but, after the last few days, it will be so welcome.

Talking To Strangers

Against all advice to the contrary, I often find myself talking to strangers.  To the husband standing or sitting by the dressing room doors while wifey tries on something new, I might say, "They also serve who only stand and wait."  To the elderly gentleman wearing Madras plaid Bermuda shorts with black dress socks and wingtip shoes, "Whaddya say, Sport?"  If a child says, "Excuse me," or some other polite comment, I might tell the mother, "You're doing a good job."  While shopping yesterday, an older dude in a cowboy hat and waxed mustaches six inches long to either side (no, really!) was humming a happy little tune as he went up and down the aisles.  When I passed him several times in different areas and he was still humming, I finally told him,"You've got to control this unbridled joy.  It's contagious and pretty soon you'll have the entire store infected!"  At the grocery store later, I saw what the woman ahead of me at check-out was buying and ran back to pick up a like carton, and told her, "I was fighting temptation so well until I saw your Rocky Road ice cream, and I lost the battle!"  It's amazing how a throw-away line can put a smile on a stranger's face.

One hundred-three degrees yesterday.  I hated to leave the dog and cats in the house, but I did a runner and took the air-conditioned truck to town.  The day before I'd gone to the feed store but hadn't unloaded a bag of feed, just too damned hot to face it.  It wasn't until I'd made the first stop to pick up Bessie's heart-worm meds that I saw the bag still in the truck bed.  Then, of course, I worried about leaving it unprotected.  There doesn't seem to be much of a demand for lactating goat chow because no one ripped me off while I made other, lengthier stops.  It's still in the back of the truck, still too hot to put it away.

In one regard, writing these daily entries is another way of talking to strangers.  It's all about making someone smile.