Rainy day stuff

It was a dark and stormy night—oh, no, I mean morning. By 9:30 the sky was almost dark as night, thunder rumbled, lightning flashed—and sweet Sophie followed me around mournfully with accusing eyes as though I had deliberately let this happen. No amount of, “It’ll be all right, Soph” seemed to help. The actual heavy storm, with a downpour, passed rather quickly, and we are left with a drizzly, dull day.

The chickens don’t like rainy weather any better than Sophie does, but they are much more vocal in their protests. My goodness, they’re noisy this morning.

Once I was sure the worst of it was over, I went to pick up my Central Market groceries. To my surprise, Jordan didn’t caution me not to go or to be careful on slippery roads or any of those things, but I was extra cautious, always watching to see that the other guy didn’t slip and slide instead of stopping.

As I drove away, a sleek black dog, medium in size, darted across the street and into our front yard, where it turned in circles and looked both scared and puzzled. It is too much trouble for me and my walker to get out of the car, let alone chase a dog across lawns, so I called Jordan and stopped to put the dog on the neighborhood email. Christian didn’t get out in time to see it, and it dawned on me it might be the neighbor’s half-grown lab. They didn’t respond to a call. I wish I knew so I won’t worry about that dog all day.

Was able to help reunite a dog and its family later in the day, through the same neighborhood email. I’d love if it were the same dog, but I don’t think so. The one I saw was black; the one that was found (on a busy street) was brown with a white paw.

Today was to have been our neighborhood-wide garage sale, postponed until next week way in advance because of the almost hundred per cent chance of rain. The annual zoo run was also on today’s calendar, which meant I would have to avoid my favorite shortcut when I went to Central Market. But with the weather, I went ahead and took the zoo road. Still don’t know if the race was cancelled or simply over by the time I got there, but there are few things more discouraging than empty race stations in the drizzle.

Saying for the day comes from TODAY show host Carson Daly, talking about his lifelong battle with anxiety: “If you took chalk on a chalkboard and made a mess, that was the noise in my brain. That was the anxiety,” he said. “And being on [his new medication] is like someone took an eraser and just erased it.” I don’t know what medication has made such a difference, but I am delighted for him. I too have battled anxiety much of my adult life but am no longer on medication. I think his description of the chalkboard is the most apt I’ve ever heard, and I would hope all those who poohpooh anxiety as “all in your head” will read and heed it.

No anxiety here today. I have a good book, and it’s a perfect day for a nap. A good friend coming for an early glass of wine this evening. My kind of Saturday. Stay dry and cozy, friends (actually the temperature has dropped quite a bit).

A bookstore, rats and grass fungus—and a truly hot potato

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.

                                                                                                                                              

Watching chickens and feeling better

Not sure there's a connection between watching chickens and feeling better, but I have a great deal of fun watching the chickens outside my bathroom window. Once I found the pen empty, door open, and emailed the owner in alarm. Now, I’m more seasoned. I know they let the chickens free range in their back yard if someone is around to watch them. The other day I found a lone chicken in the pen and the other three out roaming. Had the penned one been bad, I wondered. Do you punish chickens? Surely not. Another day, I found the pen empty of chickens but the relatively new pup, who happily plays with the chickens, was trapped in the pen and obviously waiting for someone to come rescue him. It occurs two me that the two young boys, ages ten and twelve, growing up at that house are having a marvelous childhood, whether they realize it now or not.

Now it’s happy hour amusement at the cottage to encourage guests to look out the bathroom window at the chickens. And tonight, in their honor, I had scrambled eggs—from those chickens.

After self-diagnosing myself with everything from stomach cancer to the beginnings of Alzheimer’s, I feel better today and apologize for my whiny blog last night. Signs and symptoms, which I won’t detail here, lead me to believe I had some kind of stomach bug. I’m still being careful but feeling more cheerful—and a bit more interested in food. Now if I could stop blowing my nose….

In fact, I’m feeling much more optimistic about my writing and anxious to get on with my research. But I keep getting sidetracked by the Alice Roosevelt mystery I’m reading, The Body in the Ballroom. She certainly was an interesting young lady—and a fascinating character all her life.

It occurs to me that maybe life gives us these little setbacks as a way of energizing us to go forward. You know, one step back and two steps forward. That’s how I feel about the world tonight.

Our neighbor, Susan, and one of her New York sisters, came for happy hour tonight, and we had a great time, talking about their childhood home, which just sold, our church, where they grew up, restaurants in Fort Worth—Becky says the food is better than New York. And, yes, they looked at the chickens.

Thunder, lightning, and rain!

The weatherman said 40% chance of showers this afternoon, but I’ve lost all faith in him. As Christian says, when the TV says pop-up showers, they never pop up at our house. But about two o’clock, we had light rain and distant thunder that I found encouraging. Sure enough, soon this incredible thunder boomed, the kind that sounds like fireworks going off right in front of you and then is followed by silence and stillness so profound that you think the storm has sucked all the air out of the atmosphere. It makes you hold breath. Good heavy rain followed.

Sophie was a pain all morning. Our sprinklers had gone off, plus I suspected maybe a light rain, and I didn’t want her running hither and yon chasing squirrels and then bringing all the mud from the outdoors inside. But she was desperate to go outside, jumping up on the couch (no, I’m not a good disciplinarian) where she could look out one window at the squirrels and another at the chickens. I finally let her out thinking she would want to relieve herself before I went to lunch. Nope, she wanted to chase squirrels. Mary, who came to go to lunch with me, gamely went out into the yard waving a piece of Velveeta and calling Sophie. It probably took ten minutes to entice her into the house. I hated to reward bad behavior, but we had waved that cheese in front of her. She looked stunned with disappointment when we told her goodbye and left.

Mary took me to an early birthday lunch since she’ll be away when we celebrate. We both like Swiss Pastry Bakery because we like sausage and kraut—we do share German heritage. Delicious as always, though filling. I came home with potato salad and kraut and will probably have that with some salami for supper. The outing gave me yet another chance to drive my car.

None of the local critters enjoyed the storms. I looked at the chickens this afternoon, and they were all four perched on the crossbar in their pen, as though they didn’t want to get their feet in that mud. Didn’t know chickens were that finicky.

Tonight, after all that unsuccessful fiddling with Skype, I talked to a book club of teachers in Henderson, Texas via Facetime. We chatted for just under thirty minutes, and I think it went well. I just put aside m conviction that Facetime makes me look like an old hag. I tried to hold the phone as high as I could, as I’ve watched Jordan do with selfies, but that gets tiring. Pretty soon I quit worrying about my looks and enjoyed the conversation. I was pleased that some of them had read other books of mine than the one they read together. We chatted a bit about writing historical fiction and about everything from Chicago to my grandchildren. Readlly fun. I’d like to do more of that.

And here comes the weekend!

Red at night….

Did your mom teach you that old verse like my mom did? “Red at night/Sailors delight/Red in the morning/Sailors take warning.” The sky is not red tonight but a faintly pink color that is a bit eerie. Perhaps if there weren’t buildings and trees in the way, I could see a glorious pink-and-gold sunset. Or perhaps it is that strange pre-storm color that the sky sometimes gets. We supposedly have a chance of a storm later tonight.

Nothing to blog about tonight. It’s been a work day, with my nose at the computer most of the day, and now I’m ready to settle down with that Anne Hillerman novel I’m reading. A small online group I belong to has had a fascinating discussion of Anne H.’s attempts to carry on her father’s literary legacy and series of mysteries set in the Four Corners area of New Mexico, mostly in Navajo country.

My naïve thought that she was doing a good job and seemed to understand Navajo culture in a way that few outsiders do was brought up short by opinions that her books were not as interesting, and she really didn’t know the culture. Until someone pointed out she was writing from the feminine point of view, and as is true of many of cultures, the female experience is very different from the male. I had initially praised her for bringing Bernadette (Bernie) Manuelito, a minor character in her father’s books, to center stage.

The group consensus finally settled on the fact that her writing from the female point of view brings a new dimension to the series and that she understands the culture well enough to differentiate between the gender experiences. I think I pretty much agree, but the discussion carried me into the book, Cave of the Bones, with a whole new critical eye. So far, I’m enjoying it.

Jordan invited me in for Mexican casserole tonight, but my mind was set on scrambled eggs with chopped scallion, tomato, and some of the smoked salmon I have in the fridge. When Jordan was out watering, she got to talking to the neighbor behind me, and somehow the result was that I got fresh eggs for my supper. So good!

I do enjoy watching the chickens, though the only place I can see them is out my bathroom window. Today one was on the roof of their pen. I’ve watched them fly up to perch on a bar inside the pen but never seen one up that high before. They free range a lot, whenever the family is home to watch them. There were brown eggs in the ones I got tonight which confirms, to me, that gold or brown hens lay brown eggs. Never thought I’d be so fascinated by chickens.

Too dark to watch chickens now, so I’m going back to my book. Pray for rain, y’all.

Bringing the outdoors inside

June 7, 2018

Even though the temperature hovers in the upper nineties, I live with my French doors to the patio wide open. (With the air conditioner working, it stays comfortable for me, too hot for many; and no, I’m not breaking the budget. With my wall-mounted self-contained HVAC unit, cooling does not cost astronomically as it does with traditional unites.)

Sophie spent this morning running from one end of the yard to the other, happily and busily going about her primary job of keeping squirrels off the property. She leapt to the top of the driveway fence, ran back and forth to the rear of the yard, then momentarily collapsed on the ground, tongue lolling out of her mouth like a great red fly-catcher. Periodically she ran into the cottage to have a cool drink of water, and then she was back out.

I thought how wonderful it was she was having such a good time—until I looked at my hardwood floors. The sprinkler system went off early this morning, so the ground was muddy, and she brought mud and tree worms in by the bucketful. I had to sweep and mop, not chores on my usual list.

I love having the door open, not just for Sophie but because it feels like I’m bringing the outdoors inside. I can smell the honeysuckle that hides the ugly back hurricane fence, and the pecan tree seems to spread its sheltering boughs over my desk. The simple act of opening that glass door makes everything more immediate, as though I could reach out and touch the trees, flowers, ground cover.

From my bathroom window I can see the four chickens behind me. Never thought I was a chicken lover, but I am growing quite fond of them, and I admit I sometimes linger too long just watching them peck at the ground or huddle together on a crossbar. Who know that chickens were so group minded that they huddle in the hottest weather? And those good-sized birds like to perch on that tiny piece of wood.

The other day, Amy, my neighbor, opened the pen so they could have a bit of free ranging. Then she strode across the lawn—literally, a very purposeful, deliberate, and brisk pace, and the chickens, as though one unit, scurried along behind her. They know who feeds them. Two are gray, one a striking black and white, and the last a lovely gold.

Yesterday I happened to glimpse a different bit of nature. I saw something move across a branch in one of the trees that towers over the chicken pen. I decided it was a baby squirrel, but then it flopped, and a large head with two piercing eyes appeared behind it. Those two eyes stared directly at me (my imagination, I’m sure) until I broke the connection. I’m afraid a cat had killed a baby squirrel. When I went back minutes later, it was gone. But this morning I saw a tiny squirrel jumping in the branches of that tree, so I think there’s a family there.

And this afternoon I saw the predator again. I decided it was a large cat, a small bobcat, or an owl. Went back again and decided it’s a large cat. Gold in color. It may be the neighbors’ cat.

Nature seems so calm and safe but in truth it’s no more a peaceable kingdom than the world of man. Meantime, I’ve been enjoying the best of the citified world too, eating out three nights this week. Tonight, I had dinner with friends at the Sanford House in Arlington, a B&B, spa, events center, and restaurant. The main building looks like an elegant older home but is really 1990s construction. Inside though you’d swear you were back in the late 1800s. Wonderful menu, elegant surrounding, pleasant service—a truly special evening. I had crab cakes and white cheddar/jalopeno grits, plus a lovely chardonnay. I’m a happy camper.

The Saga of the Coyote and other predators

A coyote was reported to have killed a cat in neighboring Fairmont a couple of nights ago, and last night one wandered on the prowl in our Berkeley neighborhood. The south end of Berkeley has a tree-lined creek, and a drainage ditch, with a lot of shrubbery, runs along the east edge—plenty of habitat for critters. Plus, we’re so close to the zoo and park, they can wander up from there.

So last night the Berkeley Buzz reported a coyote coming out of the creek and headed east—far end of the neighborhood from us, and I thought no more about it. But Jordan came out in a little bit and closed my patio door as a precaution. At first, I wanted to tell her about the people-shy nature of coyotes. I doubt one could breach our fences and gates, and if it did, it certainly would not come waltzing into the cottage after Sophie. But she was right, of course. The point was to keep Sophie inside, not the coyote out.

This morning all is calm, with no report of the predator.

I’m always a bit on a watch for predators in the neighborhood. Four chickens live behind me in a large pen and a coop made out of an old playhouse. I can best see them from the bathroom window, and I peek at them when I’m in there. Did you know chickens are cuddlers? They cuddle or huddle together, even on the hottest day. They’re also pretty—one is a beautiful golden color, another a striking black-and-white pattern.

One day I saw the pen door open and nary a human or a chicken in sight. I panicked, thinking a predator had gotten them. (It happened once before with one chicken and a dog, and I still remember the predator who got all my kids’ rabbits—gory details not necessary; I was much more upset than my children who didn’t like caring for rabbits.) Anyway, I emailed both the dad and mom behind me; turns out the mom was home and let them out for a bit of free range grazing or whatever chickens do.

A friend’s Shih Tzu was grabbed by a predatory bird (hawk, probably). Fortunately, he was too heavy for the bird, and it dropped the dog.  Poor little guy had vicious-looking wounds from the talons, but with antibiotics, he’ll be fine. I don’t worry too much about Sophie and birds, be they hawks or owls, because at thirty pounds I figure she’s too heavy for them to attack. And I suspect she’d put up a good fight—unless her backyard demonstrations are all bark and no bite.

But a coyote—I don’t know. A part of me hopes a coyote just wouldn’t want to try to deal with a dog almost its own size. I think they go for easier prey. But I’ll never bet on it. And the occasional bobcat found in the city—that scares me.

But Sophie mostly prefers to spend her days on the couch (note the head on the pillow). Of course, it’s twilight that worries me, and I don’t let her out unless I’m at my desk with a full view of the yard. I have no idea what I would or could do in case of an attack. You know what they say about adrenaline—I might well abandon the walker and run to the rescue.

Some chicken excitement

The neighbors behind me have a couple of chickens. They had three but one day they let them out on the grass, not realizing their gate was open. Another neighbor’s dog came charging across the lawn, and before they could stop him, he got one of the chickens. The two survivors are still traumatized and rarely come out of their coop. I watch out the window when I can, because I like to see them.

But today, when I let Sophie out in the afternoon, she had a conniption fit at that corner of the yard. Through the window, I could see the plants and bushes shake, and her deep guttural sounds, unlike squirrel barks, alarmed me. I went to the door once, and it looked like she was stymied in getting to whatever she wanted. And then I saw the neighbor in his yard, so I figured he would take care of it. Stern orders to Sophie to come inside went unheeded. She did come in once, very excited, and barked at me a couple of times as if to say, “If only you knew how exciting this is.”

The neighbor’s wife called. There’s a thin strip between the fence and my cottage. Some years ago, when I had a dog that was an escape artist, I had it blocked off with a wire gate, because I couldn’t see the dog and always worried he’d get away when he was out of sight. It seems today one of the chickens somehow ended up in that strip, and Jason, the neighbor, was on his way to get it. I called Christian to say there was a crisis and would he come out and help—my principle concern being to get Sophie away before she broke down that unsubstantial wire gate. But I woke Christian from a deep sleep, and he was befuddled, wanted to talk about it when I wanted action.

All is well. Jason returned the chicken to its own yard, and everyone went about their business. I can’t really blame Sophie for her uncontrollable behavior. She is, after all, a Bordoodle—half border collie, bred to look after barn and farm critters. I’d like to believe if she got to the chicken all she would do is herd it, but I’m not at all sure of that. She does sometimes try to herd the other dogs in the family.

By coincidence, I had just been to the web page of the kennel where I got her. Best I can figure is that they were experimenting with poodle/border collie crosses, and she was of an early litter, perhaps their second. Today they offer three sizes of bordoodles—petite, miniature, and standard. Sophie is a miniature, the product of a border collie bitch with a miniature poodle dog. She is 30 lbs. and sturdy. At first glance you’d think she is a poodle, but I work hard to prevent grooming from making her look like a poodle.

I’ve always felt a bit of guilt that I paid a lot of good money for Sophie, when perhaps I should have rescued a shelter dog. To my amazement, the fee I paid for her six years ago is now a drop in the bucket. The price has at least doubled. Still, she’s worth every penny.

The day we chose her

She is one of the best dogs I’ve ever hard—why do I feel disloyal to others in saying that? She is sweet, affectionate, well-trained, healthy—and stubborn, headstrong, and spoiled. When she’s worried about me, she sleeps on my bed or right next to it. When I’m in the main house, she wants to come back out and guard the cottage. She knows that’s where we live, although she spent several years in the house. She takes her responsibilities most seriously, but also her rights, like a treat after dinner and dinner on time when she’s hungry, please. If she doesn’t get her way, she’ll bark until she does. If pushed too far, she’ll growl, though the one night she growled at me, she was so remorseful she spent the rest of the evening at my feet, looking deep into my eyes as if to ask if I still loved her.

At six, she has lost none of her puppy enthusiasm for chasing squirrels or greeting visitors. And in those circumstances, she is deaf to my commands. But otherwise, she is well trained—no accidents in the house, sleeps by my side during the day unless a squirrel calls, comes when called, knows sit stay, down.

In short, she’s like a lot of people I know—not perfect, but darn close. Okay I admit it. I adore her.

Chickens, dogs, and a working Sunday

The neighbors behind me have chickens. When I say behind me, my cottage sits as close to their property line as allowed and two windows from my living area look directly into their back yard. Amy came yesterday to separate a bromeliad and take some of the pups and said they are suddenly, unexpectedly the owners of three hens, abandoned by a renter on her father’s country property. Jason has been busy for weeks converting a playhouse into a henhouse, but they weren’t quite ready.

This morning, Sophie discovered the chickens—not sure how. She couldn’t see them, I couldn’t hear them—maybe a dog’s sixth sense. But they required her to go barking to the fence line and then come in barking frantically at me, so that I’d understand her need to get to those critters. Later, I looked out the window and saw a small gray cat sitting outside the fenced run for the hens, staring intently and not moving. So cute. I rather like the whole idea and hope they get lots of fresh eggs—such a treat. For now, according to Amy, the hens are traumatized by the move and three days of abandonment, so they’re not laying yet, but hope springs eternal.

My brother and his wife have chickens on their ranch, and I’ve learned a bit about fresh eggs from them. When sister-in-law Cindy wants to give me eggs, she goes to a wood chest, not refrigerated, in the garage and hands them to me with the warning, “Be sure to wash them before you use them.” I’ve seen this online too. In Europe, they don’t refrigerate eggs, but neither do they subject them to all the cleaning processes we do here which washes off their natural protective coating. Left in their natural state, they will keep a long time unrefrigerated. And nothing tastes better.

Stormy night here. It was dark by 6:30, but the storm was a long time coming, with lots of distant thunder rumbling. Now at 8:00 it’s raining but not pouring. Thunder is still rumbling, and the air is much cooler. I aril have the French door open to enjoy that rain smell and the cooler temps. Sophie, always nervous about thunder, is right next to me.

My brain is exhausted. I didn’t have a way to church this morning, so stayed home and worked. Got an incredible amount done—wrote over a thousand words on my work-in-progress, wrote a guest blog, proofread my novella and one other for the collection Sleuthing Women II: Ten Novellas, due out digitally in September at a bargain price. I’ll post details here when it’s available.

Think I might spend the rest of the evening in frivolous reading. Maybe my bedtime novel, A Pain in the Tuchis. If you don’t know what a tuchis is, you might not enjoy it as much as I am.