During our E-Love while I was spinning my wheels in Metropolis, hubs told me entertaining tales of the guinea hen giving him lap dances in the back yard. (No, Mister Twain, I am not asking fact to be as sensible as fiction today, either.) That same guinea hen has been pecking my toes vigorously since I have been back. Ow!!! Not gonna kill me, but I have touches I prefer with my morning coffee, or any of my other yard diddles. The dialogues I have had with the guinea hen have had a meaning similar to the ones I have been having with the grey tabby adolescent who planted all 10 claws in my back in her attempts to reach me. My beloved and I have decidedly separate translations on what animals are trying to tell us. He is an educated poet, after all. Got the Bachelor's Degree to prove it.

To update the cat ramble, I had a chat with one of the roomers in the bachelor house next door. He has seen her coming and going from the city sewer slot between the two property lines. Fits my perception. Every city sewer I have ever crawled in to has a sizable feral cat population in it. They are willing to comfort wounded humans if they can, but check the mask at the entry port. Not a one of them has been impressed with even my funnest masks. Not even when I attach cute. fuzzy pink balls. Well. . . I could try soaking the fuzzy pink balls in something edible. . . Hm-m-m-m. . . Prolly not today. . . It would take longer to read my current "To-do List" than to do any job on the list.

The guinea and I had an in depth conversation while I was trimming the Mexican Tarragon and Greek Oregano this morning. Not too sure what she had to say, but she got real close to my toes without a single peck. Her tones sure were pretty. Purty enough to get me singing harmony. She seemed to like the feather inspection. I am seeing some white flakes that don't look too healthy, but not too bad, either.

Well. . . the paint job calls. . . The fuzzy duckling (trim) in the closet needs touch up from all the september morning (walls) which I dripped on it through the course of all the family drama. Almost finished with the closet and the patches in the room are sanded and primed.

Wink, wink, Mister Twain. Breathe in breathe out. . . Wax on wax off. . . Brush left brush right. . . .

Thanks again for the ramble space. . . I think the feeling of electric oscillation is coming into balance. Works in progress. . .