Rocky, Part Deux

You know how it is when you have a dog, and they sneak into the laundry room when you leave the door cracked open, and you hear lots of ruckus and cat food being eaten...and then you remember you don't have a dog? So you creep near the laundry room, wondering if auditory or visual hallucinations usually come first with dementia and old age, then give a blood-curdling scream when you come face-to-face with a raccoon eating the cats' food? Yeah, that was my evening.

And people say things like, "I don't know who was more scared."
Well, I do - and it was definitely me!

I recently ranked all the things RB has done for me since we met, and installing that access door for the cats was #1. It allowed me the freedom to go away for the weekend without worrying about them (as much).

#2 on the list is also animal-related: he chased off between 50-75 bats from my carport eaves, then covered the openings with a fine mesh screen so they couldn't come back. Did I mention he performed this task at night when most had flown out in search of food? I couldn't even stay outside and be supportive, in fear that he'd be attacked and fall off the ladder (in reality, my screeches each time I felt a breeze, were probably more apt to cause injury).

#3. Tree-trimming, porch-saving and general yard beautification projects. Most days, after I get home, I can't decide where to sit with my beer in order to enjoy the view most.


Bathroom Prison Blues

Cash: not just a man in black. Also a kitten in charcoal grey.

[As well as being a potential source of endless nicknames: Cash Cab. Cashilicious. Cash Only. Pothead. Okay, technically that's Holly's suggestion since it appears he followed Crackhead home].

Unfortunately, this adorable little kitten who wandered into my yard has the same intestinal parasite as Ashcroft, who died a year ago this week. What? Me, worry? More like obsessively love, overfeed, and monitor stool samples. People have different strengths and callings - mine might possibly be feline innkeeper.


The Grass is Always Greener...?

I would call myself a minimalist when it comes to yard work, preferring to cut the weeds every couple of weeks, or when I feel the neighbors glaring at me as I drive past their homes.

Alas, I started dating RB in December, during a particularly rainy season when my front porch almost washed down the short slope to the street.

He jumped in with both feet, getting the cement truck, Bobcat, and a truckload of sand. Visions of yard grandeur were already dancing in his head.

Oh, sure, it seemed innocent enough when he applied fertilizer, then programmed the sprinklers. I vaguely remember conversations of centipede and bermuda, as he spread grass seed, some sod, then weed killer for good measure. He'd spend one day a week mowing, weed eating, edging, and blowing debris. Yeah, it looks great, sweetie.

Now, however, that we're not together, I have to pull out that lawn mower, and traverse this lush green paradise as the temperature hits 102°F. Bonus? The fact that I gained 20 pounds when we were together (eating out, BBQ, grey goose) means I have even more sweaty bulk to haul around.

I don't want to sound ungrateful, but it's only June. Next year's forecast is calling for weeds.