Today's post is hosted by 18 pounds of hair.
This is our morning ritual. I take a bath, and then while the tub is still holding the heat of the water, I spread out a towel and Dinsdale hops inside and tantalizes me with his biga belleh. We are getting on a little better now that I appear to have stopped the pissing behavior which was just killing me, and on it's way to killing Dinsdale, by way of me. The solution: clean out the cat box every day. What, you weren't!!!???, you gasp in horror. To which I say, fuck no. Life on the urban farm can get a little overwhelming and the cat box is in the mud room, which is out of sight and tends to be where I just throw shit that I'm ambivalent about (not that I'm ambivalent about my cats). But. Dinsdale, through his gross and stinky actions, has shown me the error of my ways. Or has me running scared, depending on how you look at.
But last weekend, I cleaned out the mud room, steamed the floors and threw crap out. I looked around beforehand and thought, you know, this is a pretty good representation of my psyche at the moment, and after I cleaned it all out, it really did feel cleansing. Like a high colonic for the soul.My five plum trees are bombarding my yard and lying all around like some Easter egg hunt gone horribly awry. The nights are coming up much faster now, and the chicken sisters have acclimated, now turning in before 8:00. Butters now lays a perfect, miniature egg every day now. Apparently, it takes about 3 weeks for their eggs to reach normal size, which in the case of Buffs, is large. I don't know if it is because of her new egg-laying prowess, but she seems to be less ostracized than has been the norm. And now when Ester gives her grief, she still cows, but sort of talks back, as well. And fluffs herself up so she's twice her size. Crazy chickens.

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