No, they don’t all
go together, as though there were rats and fungus in a bookstore—disgusting thought.
Good news first--Fort Worth will once again be home to an independent bookstore.
This, to be called Leaves, will feature books and teas—I gather everything from
dry tea leaves to fresh-brewed. Waiting to for specific details but it will be
located in the newly booming Near South Side area. I’m asking all my friends to
support it in whatever way they can.
Now the
not-so-good news: I am still hearing rats—last night their squeaking was so
close, I wanted to just say, “Well, come on in.” I have seen two, looked like
babies, run along the back fence—in fact, I scared a guest sitting on the couch
one night by announcing, “Rat!” He ducked immediately, and I had to reassure
him it was outside and wouldn’t land on his shoulders.
Out of curiosity,
I look up the rat/chicken relationship and found the expected—chickens do not
attract rats but their food, water, habitat does. Feeders that hang in the are
best, and our neighbors use those. But I still see the chickens scratching at the
ground.
The rats don’t
really bother me, but it’s kind of eerie to sit and listen to them and think, “They’re
out there, waiting to attack.” Like something out of science fiction of a
Hitchcock movie.
I also wondered
about the relationship between rats and rain, because I didn’t hear them until
our recent rainy spell—call it what it was, a deluge. Generally, from what I
read, heavy rains aren’t likely to bring out the roof rats, which are probably
what I’m hearing. Yes, rats will leave their burrows and seek a more secure
spot—like your car engine—but roof rats likely also have a home in your attic
already. And they head there, not for the trees where I’m hearing them. So no
explanation—there are rats out there, and if they get to be a problem I’ll call
an exterminator and get those dog-proof boxes.
Meanwhile, a yard
problem solved—and easily. All summer our grass has been disappearing in the
back yard—not a very big space but still. Everyone had a different theory—I thought
we should check for fungus (though I don’t know how you do that), Christian
thought it was fragile grass (new last year) and three dogs, albeit little,
peeing on it killed it; Greg, who used to be my gardener, shrugged and said, “It
happens.” I got fed up, called the landscaper who put in the ground cover (and
whose wife was Jacob’s first-grade teacher—we live in that kind of small world).
He came by this afternoon, and I didn’t even see him glance at the grass went
he went by, but he had his answer—gray leaf spot fungus. Hesitantly I asked for
a price to treat it, and he said, $40. To think I could have done this two months
ago, and we would have had grass all summer! He’ll treat it tomorrow.
So two up—a bookstore
and an easily treatable fungus—and one down—persistent rats. Not a bad record.
Hot this week, not so much so next week. I’ll take that for sure.
Ah, but the day
held a final indignity. With my still uncertain stomach, I fixed a baked potato
for supper—put half in fridge for tomorrow and was busily cutting up the other
half getting ready to slather it with butter and yogurt and add salt and
pepper. Somehow potato and plate flew off the butcher block table. The plate
landed in Sophie’s water dish, and the potato I assumed was under the table.
She found it before I did, prized it out from under the bottom shelf, and
prepared to trot away with her prize—but it was too hot. She dropped it and
proceeded to look at it in puzzlement. Telling her no at this point was useless,
but I tried. She picked it up again, went a few feet and dropped it. By then I
had my grabbers and did just that—grabbed it and put it in the trash. She nosed
around, nibbled a few crumbs that had dropped, and went back to studying under
the table, as though another potato half would emerge. I should have gotten pictures,
but I was too busy trying to recover the potato. And laughing.
Cottage cheese
with yogurt for supper.
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