A ramble with Miss B (whose leg is doing fine, though I am still chary of taking her running) always shows me something interesting. I’m not sure this tree will survive the hole at its base, but while it does, I think about what could live in such a space.
Stories are everywhere. You can’t escape them, ever.
Written music is a code, and breaking it is easier with a teacher. Since mine headed off across the continent, I’ve been tooling along on my own. Audible cryptography isn’t something I ever thought I’d be interested in, but there it is. Despite the frustration, I like it. It gives my brain something else to chew on (other than itself) and the only problem is, now I’ve started trying to figure out music instead of just listening to it. So, it gives surcease with one hand, and takes it away with the other.
Like most things in life.
Anyway, Bach is getting tricky. The minuet itself is simple(ish), but working with my hands so close together and figuring out what precisely he means when he wants my right thumb there instead of over here was frustrating as fuck. At least I have the internet and can look up other performances, and crack the code that way. Not a bad way to spend an evening, all told.
We’re having a plague of snails this year. Of course, many of the birds are very happy about this, since they’re crunchy with a nice chewy centre. Me, I just keep thinking of the Neverending Story every time I see one. I even sometimes whisper to them, Tell your rider to be careful, there’s a lot of birds about. I know I shouldn’t warn them, for they eat the shit out of my hostas every spring…but I can’t help myself. They are so small, and I am so large, that I feel constrained to be gentle.
Although I do wish I could whisper a garter snake or two into the yard. I wonder if they eat snails? I have no taste for escargot, but then again, I am not a snake.
I half suspect she was a dog in a past life, because her furry belly is not a trap. Despite having pitons for claws, she does not take blood after you give her tummy rubs. In fact, she throws herself on her back and demands Miss B give her belly-nosings every time we go downstairs. She would be on my heels, like Miss B, all damn day–if not for the fact that Odd Trundles is also at my heels all day, and he is far too Loud and Obnoxious for her taste.
One of these days, she’s just going to smack Odd in the face when he wiggles up demanding at top volume that she play with him, and from then she will rule him unmercifully. (At least, that’s what the Mad Tortie does.) Until that day, though, she heads for the stairs whenever she suspects he’s awake.
Anyway, here is our calico wonder. If you listen closely you can hear her purring.
The Princess snapped this shot of Trundles chillin’ halfway down the deck stairs. Proud and rugged, and sitting sidesaddle (he says it proves he’s a Lady of Quality, and cannot understand why Miss B snickers every time) as he watches me weed a bit of the auld sod. This was after his Afternoon Constitutional and before the rains rolled in; it was a little too warm for Odd’s taste but he wasn’t about to go inside if I wasn’t. Goodness knows I might do something interesting, like suddenly produce some food. Or I might need protection from an ankle-biting zombie.