And Kirsten Cat's spring kittens are . . . left to right . . . Beatrice, Banjo, Birdie, Bimbo and Babette.
Several days ago . . .
Everett: Kirsten’s moved them from the tractor shed attic to the cat house in the tractor shed.
Me: Then I can hold them!
Everett: She won’t like it, she’ll move them again.
Me, steamrolling, reaching for kitten: Oh pooh pooh. . . then why did she put them by the food dish?
Everett: I’m telling you.
Sure enough, the next day they were gone. He found them in a manger in the barn.
Always listen to the Cat Whisperer.
The ants are picnicking. You can see on the bottom right where they are coming from— an opening under the beatup old countertop. Yesterday there were several dozen. Today their numbers have been decimated. I know they can't be permitted to keep coming into the house, or nesting in the walls, or whatever the hell they're doing, but it feels terrible poisoning them. I can imagine them appreciative of the welcoming repast we've laid out for our guests, only to make their way back to their nests and discover our inhospitable betrayal as they die a gruesome death. Along with their loved ones.
There goes my ant karma. Maybe next year they won't open up the peonies!
Heh. Serve me right.
|Note the ants in the corner while the dishwasher does his bit.|