“Hey, Missy! How’s your novel coming along?” Marica asked. “Sweepingly, Marica. Just sweepingly!” replied Missy looking up from the pile of notebooks, books, and devises on her desk. “Ruff?” Rocky questioned. “Um, Missy… don’t you mean ‘swimmingly’?” “Swimmingly!?!” Missy cried out. “What does swimming have to do with writing an epic novel? No, no. I
I did some reading today. You?
“Yes, Marica. What can I do for you?” “Well, it’s not what you can do for me, it’s what I’ve done for you.” “ruff?” “I’ll get to you in a few minutes, Rocky. Look at this, Missy! I bought you a book yesterday.” “Oh my! Oh my heavens, Marica!” “Ruff.” “IT’S POETRY!!!! Oh thank you,
a bunny! ~~ April Fools!
It is just after 9am central time and I have taken Bebe & Gilbert out, taken Bebe out, taken Rocky and Missy on a fine walk to the peninsula and lower woods, taken Missy & Gil on a jaunt to the leaning tree, played ball in the front yard with both Gilbert & Beatrix, and
“ruff?” asked Rocky. “Yes I am, Missy,” I said, “and I’m also very disappointed in you. You are four years old now, Missy. You should know better.” “I’m sorry.” “RUFF!” “Rocky’s right, Missy. Sorry’s not good enough. Being retroactively sorry for your behavior isn’t an excuse to get me to vote for… err I mean… excuse
“What do you think, Marica? It does do a good job of shielding my eyes from the late morning sun.” “I don’t know, Missy.” “ruff.” “It’s not really you.” “ruff.” “Dang.”
“I take it that post title refers to me?” “ruff??” “Indeed it does, Missy! You were a much better girl today than your were yesterday. Thank you!” “I find your tone condescending, Marica. Another day I might not, but today I do.” “Ruff??” “Why, Missy? I just mean to let you know I appreciate you
To celebrate, I took the dogs for a walk and recorded some wonderful video of the birds singing and the breeze blowing and the dogs running. Unfortunately, my camera has decided to become stupid and YouTube doesn’t like me. So here are some stills from earlier this morning.
Just sayin’. Bobbie loves a pit bull.
I forgot to mention that if you’d like to contact Rocky or Missy directly, you now can! Rocky@FartherAlongFarmMail.com Missy@FartherAlongFarmMail.com
Rocky and Missy If it weren’t for Rocky & Missy, who would take me on my walk?
26°F out there this morning and she decided to take a swim. Beautiful morning. Wonderful run. Saw the pair of ducks and managed to snap a photo or two. Perhaps I’ll post a couple later in the day. I must away. It’s the first Monday of the Month and you know what that means… .
Rocky is doing well. Thank you all for asking! He is not supposed to exert himself for 10 days. Daughter C has sequestered him in her room. He comes out occasionally to say “Hello” and to see what’s up in the world. I think he’s recovering quite nicely. Miss Missy, on the other hand, is a mess.
“Hello? Have you seen Marica? I’ve been looking everywhere for her!” “What? No! Who!! I’ll eat your tail if you keep talking, you measly amphibian!!” “Now, Missy. That’s no way to talk to the … gecko… lizard… chameleon… , is it?” “RUFF!!”
You know what’s more odd than the Ole Miss vs. A&M and the State vs. Auburn scores? The sound bar arrived today while Mr. Big Food & I were at the game. I coaxed Daughter C into hooking it up after I hooked it up after we had supper after we got back from the
In no particular order of Importance, Relevance to Life, or Linear Time Lines (we qualified for a ‘free’ Direct TV upgrade; I can now watch Daughter C’s recorded episodes of Dr. Who over & over again as I dust), I am tired of 1. Not blogging –and– 2. Dust It is dry and there is
[Wow. Wide Open. Score. LSU. Oh– It’s college football season again. Just warning you.] Yesterday I bought one single crappy old book (for fifty cents) which contained some good advise for letter writers. [Wow! Score. LSU.] From Composition-Rhetoric (Stratton D. Brooks and Marietta Hubbard, American Book Company, New York, 1905). [Still nine minutes left to play.]
For the last few days A. Leland and I have been asking for a little rain for our gardens. Poor Missy