It's a lazy day on the hill today. Cloudy, cool, a 30% chance of a thunderstorm. When the sun isn't shining I don't move much . . . in contrast to my hyperactivity yesterday when it was a sunny seventy-something and I went from task to task. I cleaned the edges of cabinet doors, for heaven's sake!
A few weeks ago, little Max poodle developed an abscess on his face. It turned out to be from an infected carnassial tooth.
A couple of years ago, I decided that the poodle boyz were getting too old and infirm to have the sedation necessary for dental cleanings. That was an uninformed decision. Apparently it is entirely possible to sedate the little guys just enough to get the job done without endangering their aged hearts and kidneys. We know this is true because Max is now nearly toofless. He has his four fangs; no other teeth remain in his head. Max has a new personality as well. I can only conclude that his bad temper (for a long, long time) was due to oral discomfort. Bad dog mom. But all's well that ends well.
Now if only we could keep Angus' ear hair under control.
Poodles are smart, cute little dogs. But they have odd physical [never mind the personality] traits.
Poodle hair is more like human hair than like other dogs' hair (that's why they don't shed and why they are hypoallergenic), and it keeps growing until it's cut off. The necessary haircuts result in poodles always looking like goofy little jerks with their foo-foo tails, etc. Besides that, they grow hair inside their ears that needs to be pulled out, or it holds the moisture in and they get ear infections. Max doesn't have much of a problem with that; Angus does. Angus grows as much hair in his ear canals as he does on his back, like an old man. Angus often has ear infections. He's not letting me touch his head these days: time to hie him off to the groomer for some ear-plucking.
Another character for the cast at work...
A young man who spoke as if he were living in the 19th century.
"I surely thank you very kindly, ma'am, I do."
He fascinated me. He's a local, told me he does farm work for his neighbor. "We aren't family or anything . . . well . . . I guess we are cousins."
"Of course you are," I thought. Everybody in this county is related to everybody else. You have to be careful what you say about anyone because you'll find out that the person you're talking to is married to the third cousin of the subject of your conversation.
I've heard stories of a [perhaps apocryphal] place, way up in the Adirondacks, called Allentown. Supposedly every mailbox is marked "Allen."
The whole place is one big family. The county in which I live is like that.
Sort of like European royalty, except quite a bit more backwoodsy, if you get my drift.
His last name is the same as the township where I live.
"Did they name the town after your family?" I asked.
"Noooooo. Well, maybe. My family's been here a looonnng time."
"Bingo!" I thought.
A week ago I planted a variety of annuals: dianthus, lobelia in many colors, cockscomb, petunias, gazania. I check them all twice a day to see if they're bushy yet. Husband keeps telling me that one day I'll just notice that they've grown into fluffy fat plants. I am impatient. They're all blooming, so it will come, I guess. But . . . I am impatient.
Oh yes, I planted impatiens too.
I'm reading a Brian Haig novel, Man in the Middle. I have enjoyed several of Mr. Haig's other novels and the recurring protagonist, Sean Drummond, charms me. This one is all about Sean's efforts to thwart the bad guys of al-Qaeda, and I'm having a hard time maintaining my interest. It's too much like current events for my taste, not the escape for which I read.
Yesterday afternoon Man in the Middle was upstairs and, too lazy to go up and retrieve it, I pulled A Plague of Secrets off the shelf. I think somebody gave it to me, or it was part of a haul from the used book store. I'm five pages into it and I want to read it instead of finishing Man in the Middle. I so much cannot believe that I'm not enjoying a Haig novel, though, that I have to keep going. Maybe it'll end up being worthwhile.
As I sit here, the bobolinks are singing their crazy techno-music song, and the red-winged blackbirds are chack-ing and pot-pourri-ing from the tops of trees.
Hummingbirds buzz by on their way to the feeders. They showed up late this year. Smart birds: they waited until it was something like spring. For years I have wondered what bird it was that called a particular call. This year I learned what it is. It's a chickadee! For cryin' in the sink, it's probably The Most Common Bird, winter and summer, and I never knew its call: Heyyyy Sweetie! Heyyyy Sweetie!
It's all lovely background music, and it's making me drowsy. As I said at the beginning, it's a lazy day on the hill.