Es Lunes. . .
Yes, it's Monday and the words are just not there. Where are you words?
Must mean picture time! Oh, and does anyone remember Romper Room? Beatrice was stumped this weekend when I held a fine strainer over my face and recited:
Romper, bomper, stomper boo,
Tell me, tell me, tell me do. . .
All I got in return was a blank stare and an affectionate, "Are you ok?"
Am I ever really?
Anyway, some pictures of my Sunday walk through the back 80 with Beatrice and the new and improved Wildcat, fresh off of emasculation surgery. He's still a plucky little guy and right after we got him home Friday, no doubt under the influence of narcotics, he still managed to punch Black Kitty in the face. Poor Black Kitty.
Beatrice and I cut out through the pine thicket at the southeast corner of the property. It's pretty up there and easy to navigate as the shade of the pines and a blanket of needles keeps the undergrowth down.
Birds of a feather. . .this is probably the doings of a bobcat, not my Bobcat, but the real thing. I've seen a couple of bobcats before, but none this year. They're out there no doubt.
It's an uphill slog through the woods over a slight ridgeline that descends into th lower areas of the forest. It rained over the weekend and the lowland, swampy areas and creeks were full.
Care for a swim?
On the back property line is a cutover of waist high brome grass. Here comes the Wildcat!
Lots of interesting things to see, but don't eat the woody fungi Wildcat! You think the vet's dope was good?
Look at all the pretty colors!
Here's Beatrice in a moment of thought. I wonder what she's thinking?
C'mon Wildcat, let's get back to the house!
Encounter with a (late) bobcat: Cruisin' the Trace, letting the fourteen year-old drive the Fleetwood. We check out a very large bobcat carcass - it'd been clipped by a car. I said, "Poke it with a stick" (my suggestion for all situations). He kicks it, and his shoe is immediately covered with swarming ants. He quickly throws the shoe down the centerline of the Trace and does the "Holy Shit, I'm Being Eaten Alive" dance.
One of the many sweet memories of fatherhood.
Neshobanakni
This reminds me of a time when a group of friends and I came across a dead horse up in Carrollton at a friend's farm. He was bloated after being in the woods for a few days.
One ignorant fool in our bunch took a running start and trampolined off the belly of the horse, which caused a huge expulsion of "things" from the rear-end of the poor animal, including various insects and such, not to mention a smell beyond description.
Needless to say, the fun, if this was what fun was back then, was over right then and there.