Whistling

I just spent a few hours reading The Whistling Season, by Ivan Doig. This is the book club selection for this month, I believe Mable's choice. It's a good book, in that I couldn't stop reading until I finished it. Nothing spectacular, but good reading. Good writing.

Last night I sent a brief, casual email to the dog lady, asking if she had made any arrangements yet for Mr. Bond. Today she emails me saying, "I remember you--you talk to animals!"(which she had gleaned from my application). And that I could come up there and, in effect, bring him home. Now it dawns upon me, "What if he and I don't like each other?" But alea iacta est, I guess. Gretchen and Sophie seem to like me OK, Gretchen more than Soph. So I can probably get along with a little dog.

Tomorrow I have to june around and mail two dolls to an eBay customer, and my stack of bill payments.

My big feral tomato plant looked droopy this morning, like it needed water--imagine! With water standing in puddles and swampy places all over the back yard. It has clusters of blooms all over it. I'm anxious to see if it grows a real tomato, or just a bunch of little tommy-toes.