It's Always Something...

The weather cooled off a bit on Tuesday, which gave me the chance to catch up on things I can't/won't do in the blistering heat. 

One of those things was buying a new lawnmower before I lost the boys in the urban jungle of the backyard.  Because the lawn isn't very big, and I like to consider my carbon footprint is equally as small, I mow with an old-fashioned push mower.  Not only do I like the exercise, but it's quiet and efficient.  Of course, after I lug the box home, I still have to assemble the machine, though that didn't take long.  The new mower is wider, very sharp, and I had the lawn done in mere minutes.  What a wonderful tool, and I didn't even work up a sweat.  

[There was a time when a new pair of shoes, or a great Italian purse would have made my heart go pitter-patter.  Nowadays it's a shiny new lawnmower.  Where did I go wrong?]

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Wednesday morning--4:00am to be precise--Ozzy got weirdly frantic to go outside.  I'm not happy about this as I had stayed up until nearly 2:00am to finish this really good book.  Still, if a guy's gotta go...  I drag myself out of bed, open the back door, then flop back into bed to wait for him to come back inside when he's finished.  I wait.  And wait.  And wait some more.  Finally, I get up, go the back door and quietly hiss his name.  No response.  I go out onto the deck, barefoot and in my scanty sleepwear (men's boxers and a tank top) and hiss again.  Nothing.

Cursing, I come inside, throw on my hoody, jam my feet into flip flops, grab a flashlight and go back out.  I canvas the back, the front, then in case he's slipped past me, I go through the entire house.  Nada.

I begin to panic.  Where could he be?  I'm standing on the deck just outside the back door when I hear this odd rustling noise beneath my feet.  WTF is he doing under the deck?  There's no way I can reach him--he's in a place where only an 8-lb dog or a wild animal can maneuver.  I go to the opposite end of the deck where you can crawl under to access the house.


Picture this black hole in the dead of night.  My flashlight, one of those Eveready beacon-type things, barely penetrates the scary dark netherworld beneath the deck.  I do not want to crawl under there.  There are bugs and spiders and...things. 

I kneel down, call Ozzy, then get on my stomach and wiggle under a couple of feet, waving the flashlight like a light saber.  Finally I catch the glint of two little eyes.



Coaxing and cajoling, I finally get the little bastard moron out from under the bloody deck.  I have no idea why he's gone under there, why he wouldn't come out, or what the flaming hell he's doing.  I just know I had two hours sleep and had to slither under the deck in the pitch dark when I wouldn't even do it in broad daylight.

Back inside, Ozzy goes to his bed, I toss my clothes into the hamper and get out clean ones. I haven't turned on any lights; between my night vision and knowing my way around the bedroom blindfolded, all I'm trying to do is get my foot into the damned leg of another pair of boxers so I can get back to sleep.  I stagger, I flail, I think the edge of the bed is further away than it is...

I slammed into that corner right at mid-calf. It felt liked I'd been shot with a spear gun. Later in the day when my leg was aching, I looked at the bruise, and wow, it's truly, brutally impressive. So, I somehow survive the dark perils of crawling beneath the deck, then nuke myself in my own bedroom. Figures.

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Yesterday I had planned to get an early start on the next installment of the serial, but when I pulled into the driveway after taking the dogs down the valley for their walk, something looked...funny in the front garden. I let the dogs out of the car, then went to see what was amiss.

Those frigging blasted deer. Between leaving and returning--about an hour--they ate their way through my two new shrubs (the deer resistant ones), half the dogwood tree and most of the daylily greens that line the walkway. All they left behind were sticks and twigs. Visions of venison steaks wafted through my head.

So. Rather than have a nice cuppa and settle at the computer to write, I spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon trying to salvage my front yard, then spraying the disgusting deer repellent everywhere, including on myself when the breeze shifted. And hey, there's just nothing like the lovely stench of coyote pee to make a girl feel special.

Once I was finished, had another shower and threw all my clothes into the washing machine, I had to have a long talk with my deer hound. Apparently, my boy has been shirking his duties.

 

 

Ozzy spends most of his day on full alert at the front windows. He always warns me with a low growl when the deer enter the yard, which allows me to shoo them across the road and down the ridge before they decimate my plants. It seems they have figured out that if they wait until I drive away, they can have an undisturbed meal at the All You Can Eat Buffet.

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A really good thing:  This morning Max got his stitches removed, and got a clean bill of health from the vet. His missing toe doesn't actually look...missing. His foot looks a bit narrower, but honestly, you can't even tell he doesn't have all his toes. I'm sure that after several weeks of hopping and limping, it must feel wonderful to just walk.

I know I'd like to walk. Right into a nice, long vacation where there are no deer or scary dark places or corners of doom to reach out and maim a person. I'm gonna have to work on that...