Some time with the loaner dog
The loaner dog (dare I say Our) is over for a bit. No stress. I can almost imagine the thought balloons.
“Are those my foxes? Good”
“Are those my private bowls? Good.”
“Is that my place on the couch? Good.{“
“Is that my place on the bed? Good.”
Seriously, we could handle a second dog, if the integration was as simple as this.
The car received a light glaze of ice-armor overnight. Good thing we had no place to go. The heavy snowfall warning got lost in the shuffle. I pay attention to the calendar, fully aware that the start of fishing (trout) is less than two months away. I don’t intend to wet a line, but it’s important. My grandfather took great joy in getting a feed of fish from the stream below his land. I haven’t fed myself that way in half a lifetime, but I haven’t forgotten how. Or where.
Watched a new video by someone with hobo aspirations. Given his obvious lack of rail-smarts, I wonder if he’ll live long enough to retire. Dangerous way to get around, particularly when you don’t know where your ride is headed. Would I/should I encourage anyone to explore America in this time honoured fashion. Nope. Passenger service could be better, but this is one step away from self-destructive. No, I have never attempted to get from here to there while crouched beside the running gear. Moot point, now. And yes, I have hitched. Different process, entirely.
We are into a quiet weekend. With a quiet week ahead. Can you tell that I am retired?
