Sunday, March 24
This day begins in its usual way at our home in southern Arizona. Sunshine through the windows. Birds singing. Reggie and Roger playing in the covers. Me savoring the precious moments that precede getting out of bed to let the boys outside.
I walk around the property, coffee cup in hand . . . .
Reg and Rog wander with me.
Hmm . . . the rose bushes look happy . . . .
Wonder what new plants have arrived at the garden center . . . .
Next trip to the store I’ll pick up more spray paint for the wicker rocker . . . . .
“Are you two ready for breakfast?”
And so the day begins in a usual way.
Little do I know.
I putter around with various projects. Up on a ladder with caulk gun in hand, I pause my work to watch Reg and Rog rolling around in the flowers, wrestling and nipping at each other. I laugh at their innocent play.
They never tire of each other.
I check behind the back fence.
Oh, wow. Weeds are fierce back here.
Those yellow, low-to-the-ground wildflowers (aka weeds) that beautify our yard? Here they’re hip-high and higher and going to seed.
I’ll give them more time and then hack them down with the weedwacker. Gosh, I am so glad I bought that thing . . . .
I’m still toying with the idea of camping.
Not long ago I emptied the back of the Perfect Tow Vehicle and hauled a load of brush, branches, and trash to the transfer station. It’s now swept clean. I place items inside that we will need when we go boondocking.
Stuff like the blue mat and stakes, camp chairs, leveling blocks, the griddle, red checked oil-cloth, portable air compressor.
I should check the inverter . . . .
I pull the inverter out of a cabinet in the Best Little Trailer.
I plug it into the 12-volt socket and discover it doesn’t turn on.
A quick check reveals a blown fuse at the BLT’s converter, and, of course, I can’t find my supply of fuses.
Will I ever get organized again?
Add fuses to the shopping list . . . . Should buy a spare inverter, too. Darn, I hate spending money on that . . . .
The day passes quickly.
I do my stuff and the boys do theirs.
Reggie is the official Meal-Time Reminder Dog.
He repeatedly pounces on my legs as I sit with computer open on my lap.
“Okay, okay. It’s five o’clock. Time for supper.”
I fill their bowls and set them down.
“Hey? Where’s Roger?”
This is strange. He’s always here at supper time, twirling at my feet, eager for another meal.
“Reggie, where’s Roger?”
I search the backyard. I walk around the house with Reggie tagging behind. I check the front yard and the porch.
Uh-oh. This is not good.
I check all the rooms in the house.
Well, he’s gone. Oh, damn. Dear sweet Roger is gone. How did that rascal get out?
To be continued . . . .
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NOTE TO ROGER’S FANS:
Bad Me loves a cliff-hanger and says, “Oh, boy! This will get them coming back for more!”
Good Me says, “Don’t listen to Bad Me. You can’t leave your dear readers hanging like this! You just can’t!”
Totally Me compromises. “Hey guys, I love to tell a good story and this is a good one. And I want to tell it with details. At the same time, losing Roger is too serious an event to play around with. So here’s what I’ll do. I’ll tell a little bit of the ending so everyone can relax and enjoy the story. Is that okay with you two?”
Bad Me: “Geez, what a wuss.”
Good Me: “Oh, I’m so proud of you!”
At this point in the story, Roger is missing, but only temporarily.
Roger at his favorite barking corner of the yard.
All the photos in this post were taken after his escapade. As I type this a few days later, Roger is outside with Reggie. He’s probably sunning himself in his doggie bed or sniffing the property line or happily play-fighting with Reg in a bed of yellow flowers.
Do come back to read the rest of Roger’s story! Can you guess how it goes? — Sue
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THANK YOU FOR VISITING MY BLOG!
Interested in a reliable weedwacker? I wholeheartedly recommend this one, available at Amazon:
It comes with a charger. A full charge gives about six hours of run-time (Who the heck would weedwack for six consecutive hours?). After each use, I plug it into the charger and when I’m set to trim our crop of weeds, it’s set to go. — Sue
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