It has been a short, strange, summer around here and I need a hard core attitude adjustment. I think my grumpiness spawns from the constant drizzle in the air and the fact that moss patches start sprouting on the north side of my butt every time I spend a few hours outside.
I now have rain gear for my rain gear and the puddles in our back yard are so huge they have their own tides. Ducks are seeking shelter under the cabin's deck and the last hatchlings of wild pheasant chicks just strutted onto our lawn sporting newly evolved web feet and squawking, "AFLAC!"
I'm also starting to worry about Ernie our wood pile weasel/winter ermine. The other day I could've sworn I spotted him floating around on a piece of wood in a flooded pothole brandishing a tiny harpoon while hunting a new species of Aqua-vole.
Of course that hallucination could have been triggered by aches and pains that blast through my aging carcass every time a low weather front moves into the area.
No lament here. I loved my football years. I just detest the long-term injury hangovers.
Back to the continuing deluges:
I haven't seen this much pure muck generated in a long time unless you want to compare it to the latest election campaigns. Things have gotten so nasty that some members of both parties are debating whether or not Nancy Pelosi should be declared legally brain dead and be given an honorary position as the national flower pot.
Personally, I think that whole concept is deeply insulting to any type of pottery.
These stubborn monsoonette rains have also stimulated the rapid growth of a plethora of plants.
If I had the skills, I'd log some of the old growth pushki plants around here and build an addition to our cabin.
The remaining plantae would remain untouched and be designated a temperate rain forest.
Lest I forget, my foul mood was nourished earlier this semi-summer when our lawn tractor tossed its fuel system cookies. By the time I was able to get it fixed (thanks, Tim) transient wildlife had established game trails throughout our front and back yards.
The only critters that seem to enjoy and were cool with the tangled jungle that shot up around us were Marge and her two kids Lisa and Bart.
Marge is the most gentle and loving young cow moose that Jane and I have encountered since we've lived here (in dog years that would make me so old that I'd be coffee table dust by now. Jane is way younger, by the way).
We gave the trio their nicknames because Marge gently nurtures the meticulous and properly behaving Lisa while trying to keep a handle on the mischievous Bart who is continually getting his nose stuck in newspaper delivery boxes or attempting to butt naive Lisa off the end of some small cliff.
This year, Mom and her newest kids are up to something that we've never noticed before during an elongated inclemency. They are wailing away on raspberry smoothies made available by the saturated berries hanging off of this year's half-drowned vines.
Normally wintering moose amble through during cold stretches and trim our dormant rows, but not this year. With Bart leading the way, the tiny clan is laying waste to my basic source of deep winter pies by taking out the fresh stuff my bride requires to create her holiday masterpieces.
This is not behavior conducive to Bart's overall health as he ages for a couple of reasons.
First, he's really ticking me off.
Second, he has a bright white patch on his lower left thigh that is branded into my synapses. That alone will guarantee his transition into a culinary delight along with a side order of stew meat soup should we cross paths again when he becomes of legal age and Mom has dropped kicked his delinquent fanny into the real world to fend for himself.
I can't wait.
Nick can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org if he isn't treading water somewhere.
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