Springtime at The Park

Sometimes not cutting the grass can be a good thing.

We are fortunate in that we are able to grow the grass as high as we like, and not have to worry about the Jones. In spring its especially fortunate. I'll show you why, without going to Bambi on you. It may help to click on the photos.



It's rare that we have geese in the pond. Occasionally, they'll stop for a while, but they have never nested here, and deep down I know that is a good thing. We had them in other houses, and they generally do not make good neighbors.



This year they appear to have nested somewhere near the lake. The tall grass is teeming with bugs and good geese grub, so they should be happy there. In speaking to the moms today I warned them of the bass in the lake, but otherwise they should be happy.



Just up the hill, the deer like to hang out. The dogs sit in the window and howl at the deer who pay them no mind. It is almost birthing time for the momma deer, so we tend to keep the dogs inside. If we are good the deer let us babysit.




Guys, you'll know this. There is a voice wives save for special occasions. It's never good, and only a fool would fail to react in his most solicitous manner. I heard that shriek this afternoon.

The monologue went something like this.

"I don't know or care what that is, get it away from her and do it now."



Charley, the hunter, found a turkey.

Toad

Who's the parent?

Not in the womb, but shortly thereafter, I began making fun of old fat men with toy dogs. Now I'm am a dues paying member of that elite fraternity.

Charley, is Mrs. T's dog. She came with specific instructions that if it were cold, dark, inclement or inconvenient I could take care of her. I have a new best friend.

Several weeks go, she surprised me during her morning constitutional, with a head up, chest out gift of a hoof to ankle bone of one of the neighborhood deer. She was incredibly proud of herself. A quick search of the property yielded no other potential gifts.

Sunday afternoon, Mrs. T was away,the doors were open so the animals could come and go and the dogs outside, the papers were on my lap, a dumb movie was on the telly, and I tried valiantly to take a nap.

It was one of those afternoons, I'd just drift off and the phone would ring. It was one thing after another. I persevered though. Finally, dead to the world, all hell broke loose.

The dogs were, best as I could tell, on my chest reenacting the battle of Fredericksburg. Instead, Charley had found more deer bits. This time a rear haunch, and she wasn't sharing.

Attempting to separate the dogs from the bones was going to be a near death experience, and I wanted no part of it. Mrs. T came home, saw the carnage, and laid into poor innocent me. Who's the parent around here? If I've heard that once....

Brunswick stew anyone?

Toad