Wicked Witch

Unlike the Wicked Witch of the East in the 'Wizard of Oz,' yesterday I first screamed, "I'm melting!" and then threw water over my head.  Nothing helped.  I kept Bessie Anne soaked to the skin, and Ralph and Celeste vegetated wherever they could find cool(er) floors.  No such thing as cool in this weather.

Helper Dude came in the late morning to give Bess a pedicure.  She had caught me with a toenail a night or two ago as she turned over in bed and I woke up to blood on the sheets.  One would think that her nails would be worn down from running over the gravel and sand here, but no.  Dude has the tools and the strength to hold a wriggling dog who does not like to have her feet touched and I'm grateful.

We made no points in the neighborhood this morning.  Since Bess does not hear a car drive up even when she's lying by the open door, I can only think she smelled some evil night thing in the yard and sounded the alarm at 4:30; too early by anyone's standards.  There was no going back to sleep.  About 5:30 she asked nicely to go out and take care of personal business.  As she was calm then, I complied.  Big mistake.  Not quite light out, she dashed around in the dark like something demented, loudly warning off whatever real or imagined enemy was out there.  It being Friday, I can hope that whatever neighbors in hearing had to get up anyhow to go to work.  The one command that Bessie does not heed is 'recall.'  I've tried every training trick I know, but she becomes focused and single-minded and she totally ignores me.  Yelling is ineffective and only adds to the chaos.  I decided that perhaps if I remained quiet, the neighbors might think it was some stray dog disturbing their sleep.  Being the cowardly lion was preferable to being the local witch.

Real clouds in the sky last evening might be a portent of a cooler day today.  I wish I knew some magic spell to bring the delta breezes back.

Watching

The phone rang.  "What are you watching?"  I've become so predictable.  Over 100 degrees in the shade, 94 in the house, and I'm a well-baked couch potato in front of the television.  I'd just finished one of several documentaries, one of which was "The Seventies."  It's being shown as history now, which I find amusing because, for me, those years are as if they were yesterday.  It is sometimes difficult to reconcile the "me" in my mind with the "me" in the mirror.  After my conversation with Linda (we're both becoming excited about her impending visit), I watched "Journey For Margaret," the 1942 film that introduced Margaret O'Brien (Robert Young, Laraine Day, Fay Bainter, Nigel Bruce).  The little boy, William Severn, was every bit as darling as Margaret O'Brien, but never seems to get the same credit as she.  As with so many of the old movies, I've seen it countless times and never tire of it.

I gave up on using mist on myself while Bessie was in her pool and went straight to running water over my head.  With the mist, I'd be dry again before I got back in the house; useless.  I wish there was more I could do for the animals.  The wild things only come out in early morning or late afternoon, after the blazing sun drops.  Mice are pushing and shoving to get to the milk I squirt out for them in the morning, desperate for moisture.  Birds sit with beaks wide open.  Vultures line the edge of the goat trough to dip in for a drink.  I'm filling the water bowls for the chickens and wild things twice a day now, and the hummers are sucking up over two quarts of juice.  It's a struggle to keep what little remains green alive in the yard.

I'm watching old movies, yes, but I'm also scanning the skyline constantly for smoke.  It's in the air; I can smell it.  I wish I could say that the smudge on the horizon and the reflected glow at sundown last evening were clouds, but in fact it is smoke from the Lowell fire up around Grass Valley and possibly still from the Kyburz fire, which is contained but not out yet.  I can't imagine the torture being experienced by the firefighters in this heat.  As one said in an interview, their heavy gear is meant to keep heat out, but also holds it in and they suffer.  They are heroes.

Supposedly, we're due to drop back into the nineties tomorrow.  In the meantime, I'll check the TV guide.  You know where to find me.

Clues

Hmmm.  Found these tracks outside the gate to the goat pen.  The hind feet are about 4-5 inches long, so it has to be a pretty good-sized animal. They're too "fat" to be jackrabbit tracks, but I can't even guess what else they might be.  They're certainly not dog, cat (of any size), or bear.  Google just informed me they're not raccoon; not enough toes.  I've gotten pretty good at identifying prints, but these?  I haven't a clue.

When it is one degree shy of 80 at 6:00 a.m., it doesn't take Dick Tracy to detect it's going to be another hot one.  All house activity comes to a screeching halt when the temperatures rise.  Bess got soaked twice in her pool yesterday and I darn near got in there with her.  I turned the hose mist on myself four times while making my way down the deck and watering the drooping plants.

This is going to be another do-nothing day and I'll still work up a sweat.

I Know Better

There are things I've learned over the years.  I've learned when hiking (yes, I used to go hiking) never to step over a log without looking on the other side first; snakes could be hiding.  I've learned never to get firewood from the pile without gloves; black widow spiders hide in the hidey-holes.  I've learned not to reach into dark places; who knows what could be lurking.  Uh huh.  Night before last at near dark, I reached into the feed barrel for the chickens' nighty-night treat and felt something furry against my hand.  Removing said hand quickly, I turned on the light and found, not a mouse, but a squirrel.  Squirrel burrowed into the corn.  "If I can't see you, you can't see me."  I tilted the barrel and set it free.  Last night, I needed to empty in a new bag of scratch but before I could unzip the bag, I heard sounds from the barrel.  Smarter, I turned on the light before lifting the lid.  There were two, not one, but two very overweight squirrels in there.  One used amazon strength and leaped out on its own; this tubby was stuck.  "So, what are ya gonna do about it, lady?"  What I did was take this mug shot for future identification, then tilt the barrel and let the thief beat feet out the door.  I know better than to take on a sumo squirrel.

Caught!

I knew what would happen yesterday when I left the feathers on the the table, but didn't know the timing would be such that I would catch him in the act.

A few sniffs here, a couple of pats there, and...

(Serious stuff, this.)

...there it goes!

It is Ralph's belief that the entire house is his toy box.  He gets such obvious enjoyment from the simplest of things, very much like a little kid who would rather play with the wrappings and the box than the gift inside.  I don't even mind picking up after him because I know he's had such a good time.

Needless to say, it was a good day.

Birds Of A Feather

Either the vultures are stripping down because of the heat or it is moulting season.  I am finding vulture feathers everywhere.  While these may not look impressive in the photo, note that the long one is fifteen inches!  In flight, the big birds look black, but in reality they're dark brown tinged with black.  The underside is an opalescent mother-of-pearl verging on white.  The down feathers are pure white.  I find the different shapes interesting and wish I knew more about ornithology and bird anatomy and physiology.  I left the feathers on the table.  Want to bet Ralph will let them stay there?  This morning he found bits of string on the counter.  Now they're on the floor.

Ralph is usually off doing Ralph things, but lately Celeste has handed off a tour of lap duty and Mom watching to my redheaded boy.  He's been stopping by my chair more often.  He doesn't stay long, but it's not his usual habit to stay close to me.  I believe Celeste feels Ralph may be sufficiently trained as to finally be reliable or she might just need a break.  She continues to accompany me when I leave the room.  I wonder if, in their opinion, I'll ever get grown up enough to be left on my own.  (Sometimes I wonder that myself.)

I've got to make some changes in my morning routine and get down to the barn much earlier.  I do dawdle, not willing to clock in until my internal monitor says I absolutely must or there will be consequences.  The consequence in hot weather is pain and suffering.  I'm a procrastinator, not a masochist.

Don't Get Excited

Weather reporters (meteorologists) make me crazy.  Cold weather, hot weather, wet weather and they are jumping up and down with excitement.  "We're going to be breaking all records with these temperatures!"  Personally, I don't look forward to below-zero in the winter or over 100 in the summer or flood conditions ever, and record-setting extremes are not on my list of favorites.  This morning the guy is in ecstasy because we should be well above 100 degrees later this coming week.  He is euphoric.  I am depressed.

I had been thinking how sweet it was to be followed here and there throughout the house by Bess and the cats.  On reflection, I'm beginning to feel that I'm under surveillance.  I am accompanied everywhere by one or more of the furries.  To whom are they reporting?  Why am I being watched?  I am never allowed a moment's privacy.  Down at the barn, the duty is taken by mice, goats, and squirrels.  Eyes follow me at all times.  I think my paranoia is showing.

Well, it's heating up and I'd best get this show on the road.  Don't get too excited.  I don't have much on the agenda today, and you can ask the house detectives if I do or don't get anything done.  I think they take notes.