Rats. The trees are full of them. They run along the top of the fence and drive the dogs mad with fierce primitive desire.
I told hubby that I planned to spray Pam on the fence. (…and laugh when the rats skitter off into my dog’s waiting jaws…)
He thought I was going to spray paint my name on the fence.
It’s a chain link fence.
Yes, he’s exhausted. And sick. But home, thank God.
Hurricane Paula lapsed into a depression over Cuba, so we are now blessed with sun and a nice cool[ish] breeze. The plumeria are very pleased with themselves.
Breagha will turn 4 next month, but has never forgotten that long ago plane trip from Houston at the tender age of 10 weeks.
Poor girl has some form of canine PTSD, because every time the street sweeper comes by she tucks her tail and trembles. Over time she’s gotten better and the episodes don’t last nearly as long as they used to, thank goodness.
A few days ago the sweeper came by while I was on the treadmill and before I knew it -at a height of 5 and 3 speed- the dog was trying to climb atop the thing with me. Wish I could have seen my face, because hers, when her two front paws touched the track, was hilarious.
Those people really know what they’re doing, installing a fail safe. It worked, we both sort of careered off, but nobody got hurt. Bree’s fear shifted a bit, though.
I’m in too good a mood for politics. Think I’ll walk the dogs. Happy Friday!