Rats

The Death of Rats (AKA "The Grim Squeaker") appears throughout the series from Reaper Man onwards, whenever a newly deceased rat (and other rodents--he handles a lot of hamsters after Hogswatch) needs guidance to the next world.

I like the cooler weather. It rained up at work yesterday, isolated shower though. Two hard, long days at work, and my crapped out back giving me trouble. Working on it as best I can. Annoying. Tiring.

Time change coming up this weekend, which should help, but often doesn’t. I may go to bed at 8 next week.

Not bothering about Halloween, not midweek, not even at work. The custom of neighborhood trick or treating is disintigrating. turning into school, church and mall events for small kids, parties for adults. At bars, I assume, not being my milieu. This is normal, customs change, disappear, lose meaning. All things have a lifetime, and end.

The garden is covered with all the tiny leaves of our now denuded tree. The neighborhood leaves not on my compost pile... yet. There is time. Rooting a shallot inside, not sure if I should plant it outside, or in a pot on a sill over the winter.

Eleanor still being a bit mousey, there may be more bodies.

Another

Eleanor got one,
Another mouse to her joy.
Our predator friend.

Zombie

I Walked With a Zombie.




CED



Cats in sun.



Still life with thumb brace.

Microbes

Picked up a turd this morning. Moby gets random. Lost, caught short, he seems to say, “eh, close enough.” Geriatric cat. We can deal. Then I saw what I thought was another one on the dhurrie rug, which would be unprecedented. Until I saw the tail. A recently, but definitely dead, mouse. Eleanor has scored another kill. I picked that little surprise up as well, thanked her for her diligence. We knew she’d been acting mousey, staring and sniffing intently into the corner of the kitchen and the edges of the CED* to the basement. And we found a dead one in the basement in a snap trap last week. Tis the season.

Having people over to watch I Walked With A Zombie tomorrow. Eerie, but not gruesome, not horror. We never have gotten the appeal of horror. I hated violence in movies until I took stage combat classes and could see it as a sort of dance. Still not my thing, but easier. The sword fight in Princess Bride is great. And I see actual gore at work, the fake stuff is just unpleasant and technically incorrect. Murder and torture are not my idea of entertainment, uncontrolled surgery is ridiculous. Murder mysteries are not real murders, just puzzles, or Halloween decorations around a puzzle solver character. Even they sometimes bother me, really.

We’ve been watching the Nero Wolfe show, with Maury Chaykin and Tim Hutton again, as Dylan reads more and more of the Rex Stout books. There is a certain satisfaction in the murder mystery, the world returned to order, justice prevails. But when the victims are a string of innocent people as the murderer covers his/her tracks, I can’t watch.

Woke up thinking about how there seems to be a tendency for the right wing nut jobs to use guns, and the far left crazies to use bombs. Dylan thinks it’s about the far left having a Cause and a Manifesto, while the far right is about the Man. The guns used most often to take out his own family and himself, the bombs often destroying the bomber and their own homes, so the effect is similar, as they merge into the same place from varying mindsets. I think the bombers have to be a bit better at planning, more intelligent, if no less insane. Maybe the far right is less crazy but more stupid.

Ultimately, the microbes will win anyway.



*Cat Exclusion Device. Rigid insulation panel, covered, cut to the size of the basement stairwell opening. Remarkably effective.

Snug

I changed the stuffing in this bed a while back. It’s not as round or smooth. But Moby seems to like the snugness.

Fragility

Sitting on the porch,
Watching cat explore garden.
Fragile moment now.



Rocks and bricks, annuals and
Perennials wait for death
Suffering changes.

Drop

We have voted. Drop boxes, not just the post.

Made it to the last summer farmers market. Got beets, and then worried over cooking them. Thought about how I cook potatoes, in water in the microwave. So, in 20 minutes, I had the most tasty, thoroughly cooked beets in yoghurt. I really have to grow beets.

Acupuncturing myself for an incipient migraine.

Cut down the mint and bergamot. Leaving the tall grasses.

Iteration

Most recent iteration of garage curtains. The red ones from the first week in House, shifted several times. Replaced by cream curtains from yard sale. Never got around to painting. Maybe next week.



https://onewordisenough.blogspot.com/2012/05/peek-boo.html

Leapfrog

For some reason, I remembered being in kindergarten, in line, and the kid in front of me squatted down for some reason. The line started to move, and I leapfrogged over. Got me in trouble. But I thought I was following the rule, I had to stay in line and had to move with the line. I followed both rules, and thought I was clever for figuring out a way despite the snag. The adults disagreed. I thought this terribly unfair. They should have simply suggested a better way to deal with the paradox of the contradictory rules, like stepping around rather than going over.

Often children and animals are deemed malicious, for following rules so literally they break them. They should simply be offered more acceptable solutions, and have the consequences of their choice explained, praising their creativity and fostering that ability to see laterally and literally.

I went to dump kitchen compost on the pile, neighbor out back with her inlaws and their three dogs. One especially glued himself to me, as I petted him. That massage training really helps me give critters a good petting. Dog wandered off to take a piss against the garage curtains, and O's SIL aghast and embarrassed. I shrug, dog being a dog, no harm done, not the first not the last. She offered to clean it, and I am baffled. These curtains are torn and faded, would have been thrown out or used as dropcloths if I hadn't used them as visual barriers on the doorless garage.

The other two dogs also came by for pets, and to have tennis ball thrown. Humans chatted, but I was there for dogs.

O brought me grapes from her SIL. Apparently Glue Dog had been hiding in the car until I came out. Well, I'm glad to be a comfort to animals.

Off to clean.

Steel

Eleanor slept with her butt on my chin, back paws on my throat, stretched out across my chest. I was not quite awake enough to move her, only to be aware. Eventually I was able to move a hand enough to shift one back paw off my throat, up to my chin. I am a cat bed. She is a face hugger.

Odd the sleep gradient, awareness, discomfort, coma, immobility with some movement, some memory, altered perceptions.

It rained all night Friday, which is not a normal sort of thing in this part of the world. Everything soaked through. I will weed and lay down fertilizer (chicken poo) for next spring. The new-found weed-whacker needs to be cleaned before I try it out, so another spring. The garage awaits, and I have to steel myself to the task.

If we go back far enough, we are all kin. But it’s jarring to hear my maternal family name in the news so much. Not that we are currently related, my family were surely not the high status Irish, but the fitz, the poor relations, the literal bastards. And it’s not that the men of my ancestors were above sexual harassment or corruption. But there it is the K-alphabet of my family, catching me. I have largely given up on following the stories. I will vote, I will do what I can. But I can’t let it distract me from the jobs in front of me. Things will get as bad as they will get, the world will collapse, and something new will emerge, and I will survive or not, as the case may be. Adding my anxiety will not change anything, except perhaps for the worse.

The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret.




She loves when I squish her face.

Promises

Blooger and ipad really don’t get along properly. Makes writing on here several unsatisfactory steps longer. The words spread off the screen to the right, so I can’t really tell what I’m writing. Editing is difficult, when I find a mistake far up the text. The autocorrect doesn’t like my creative spellings. And I don’t like it’s misinterpretations. Creating links has utterly escaped me, and posting photos is possible but unnecessarily painful. Nothing to do about it now, stuck.

My frustration levels this week are high, despite getting a substantial rain last night. After I toddled off to bed, mind. I waiting all day to watch a storm, and it dawdled until late. Hoping for rain today, so far in vain. I did pull the sunflowers, the spent ones, leaving some for the finches to continue to feed. The ground soft with a good inch of rain, much needed. Rain barrels already emptied, ready to store for winter. Hoping to sweep the garage over the weekend, put as much as I can away.

The possibility of snow later this week, up in the mountains. Make the skiers happy as well as us gardeners. Water storage for spring.

The food from the local variety of chefs has been glorious. Made by people who love what they do, and it feels so nourishing, body and soul. We supplement the single meal, but not as much as we’d thought. When the food is good, you don’t need as much of it.

I have to start going the extra bit to keep my health. I’m feeling like I’m crumbling, thumb, back, knee, balance, gut, sleep. However much I want to just lay down and stay down. For I have promises to keep, and miles to go...