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.

Never Cry Wolf

I just watched an old movie (1983) on TCM, "Never Cry Wolf." Awesome. Even the naked man running with the caribou. It's from a book written in 1963, which I looked for on Amazon.com and was irritated to find that it isn't on Kindle. How quickly we become addicted to instant gratification!

Mo and I have had a pleasant day, most of it spent walking around and around the lot, enjoying the sun and the shade. I think Joe might have hit my JFK rose with the weed killer; it seems to be one of the few things in the front yard that look like they're dying.

This morning I went grocery shopping, for the first time in about a month, assuring myself I was only going to buy the few things that I really needed. $101.50. Well, everybody needs hot dogs and pineapple sherbet, grapes and grapefruit and chili in the can. I hadn't had a hot dog in ever-so-long, and found I could only eat one, when I usually have two when I'm hungry. Which reminds me, if my scale is anywhere near right, I've lost a few pounds since my med. checkup last month. I could afford to lose several more. I wish that, when the fat goes, the skin would shrink up a little instead of just hanging there.

Since I sent her my application by email and mailed a hard copy, I haven't heard back from Glenda about my dog. She said that two other people were interested in him. Probably some smug young couple with 1 1/2 kids and a fenced yard. Sometimes it's hard to love people.

Bond James Bond

That's the name of this poodle dog who's available for adoption in Vinemont, Alabama. Sometimes I wish Commonsense would keep quiet until I get me a dog. I had already emailed back and forth with Glenda at the site, before I remembered that I don't want (need) any more pets. But isn't that the charmingest name for a dog? A poodle. A young male black poodle, with a white chest and white paws.

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His head looks about the size of the head of the lady holding him, so maybe he's a real standard poodle (or mix) instead of a miniature. But whatever his size or lineage, I would treat him like a prince of the blood.

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I tried to list the green china on Craigslist last night, but got sleepy before I figured it all out. I would sleep all day today, if I didn't have to get about 40 pounds of stuff ready to mail.

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7:45 p.m. For my dinner I made a spinach quiche, not really knowing what I was doing. But it turned out so good, I had to speak sharply to myself to keep from eating the other half, or picking at the crust around the edges. I should be ashamed of eating so much; but it'll never be as good again, after it gets cold.

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I wish my family, what's left of it, would revive our erstwhile practice of eating at each other's house once a week. Sunday dinner/supper, maybe. Everybody make something good and bring it. Or sometimes, or most of the time, just treat each other. Let's do that.