Special Delivery

Well, it seems that Stanley and I are doomed to duke it out to the end of our days.  The fella who was looking for chickens is having a raccoon and bobcat problem at his place and declined to adopt Rotten Stanley and his girls.  Sigh.  I was down to the bottom of the scratch barrel and had hoped I wouldn't have to buy more.  It matters not that I don't like Stanley (and yes, it's personal...and mutual), I'm not about to starve any creature, so I called and put in an order for more feed, including alfalfa for the goat girls.  Patrick drove up shortly after noon; a same-day delivery is pretty special.  I'm not ashamed to say I take advantage of a young man's muscles to fill the barrels; those bags are getting too heavy for me to wrestle around anymore.

While certainly not as hot as it had been, it was nice to sit out on the porch in the late afternoon and catch a bit of breeze while GB scouted the area.  I got a call in the evening from one of GB's fans.  Evidently there is a group of Fiddletown people who meet regularly at a pub in Plymouth and GB and his prior owner used to go there.  I was issued an invitation to join them, bringing GB, of course.  Being the social butterfly that I am (not!), I declined, but was happy to give her a report on Good Boy's current situation and progress.

It is Friday and Arden is coming over this afternoon.  Since GB isn't going to do the dusting, I guess I'd better.  Oh well.