Well Done

As the saying goes, "Stick a fork in me...I'm done."  Not rare, not medium, I am well done.  Depending on where I am, I'm either baked, fried, or parboiled.  One hundred-two in the shade yesterday, it was 92 in the house.  No ceiling fan or spray bottle can keep up with that.  I make no apology for doing nothing but taking multiple naps throughout the day, the only way I know to escape.  All my good housekeeping intentions have gone up in flames.

This nearly empty two-gallon pot was filled to the brim the night before with water for the wild things.  I refilled it in the morning.  It was a good two inches down when I came back up from the goat barn (hereafter to be known as The Oven), presumably by the turkeys.  By nightfall, the pot was over half empty.  Poor things.

The goat trough is topped off morning and night.  If they've not drunk much, I still fill to overflowing to float out whatever bits of alfalfa or feathers might have fallen in.  Last evening they'd dropped the level a good three inches (that's a lot of gallons!) throughout the day.  The vultures are either moulting or simply stripping down to their undies because I am finding more large feathers on the ground and downy fluff in the trough.

Turkeys stand in groups in shade wherever they find it, mouths agape and wings akimbo.  Only the baby squirrels are active, chasing around the yard while their parents lie flattened.  Shaddup can't seem to summon the energy to yip and yerp lately.

Bess Anne is over 13 now and, like me, doesn't cope well with this heat.  During the middle of the day when taking her out to her pool would be putting her in hot water, now I use my spray bottle to try to cool her off.  We both drip our way through the day.

I can't say it was a particularly good day, but at last it was done.