There is a commentary that goes with these photos. To see it and to enlarge them all, click on the first photo. The arrow on the right of the photo will take you to the next photo. Have fun! Morrie and I want to share our afternoon with you. He’s narrating.
I suspect you are the guilty one. The evidence is clear,
and as a further indication, you’re acting rather queer.
Those pork chops just left in the pan a short while ago
are nowhere to be seen now, though I’ve looked both high and low.
I don’t know where the bones have gone, but I have a suspicion
that when you last entered the house, those chops were your ambition!
I left the room for minutes and came back, much perturbed,
to find the skillet empty, albeit undisturbed,
still centered on the burner with not even one chop.
So now I fear my dinner guests are going to have to stop
to pick us up a pizza as they drive here from town,
for when I left the pork chops on the stove top to get brown,
SOMEONE helped himself to them. Mind, I’m not pointing fingers,
but as you skulk out of the room, still, my suspicion lingers.
You are a likely felon, dear little doggie mine.
I think you’d have no chance in a doggie suspect line!
True story. Six pork chops!!! Skillet still centered over the flame, not one inch out of alignment. Later on, a mysterious stash of pork chop bones found by the gardener in the lower garden behind the studio.
Fandango’s prompt today is suspect.
The more I slow down, the more rapidly the days seem to slip by. This oxymoron dominates my thoughts in those wee hours when I am trying valiantly to sleep. The awareness of how quickly my life is advancing into its third trimester plugs up my throat until I find it hard to breathe. I fumble for the door key, open the sliding glass doors and slip out onto the patio to gulp the cool night air.
The dogs circle round, Morrie drops hopefully in front of me, a ubiquitous green tennis ball in his jaws. There must be one of those balls hidden behind every plant in my garden. Just four months ago, I had bought five tubes of them at the sports goods store—each containing three balls. I was about to set out on my yearly two-month trip to the ocean. I wanted the house sitters to be well-supplied in everything, and the balls were on sale, so I had purchased what I thought would be a lifetime supply. But those balls seem to have vanished as quickly as the two months since my return home had. Two days ago, I had purchased two more tubes of balls. They sit unopened in the doggie supply vault that stores the large bin of dry dog food, a small fridge that holds the wet food I add to the dry food twice daily when I feed them, and other doggy paraphernalia: leashes, collars, medicines, rawhide bones, doggy biscuits.
And so this is a ball he must have rapidly reclaimed from some garden shadow when he heard my key in the lock to the terrace. I bend and reclaim the ball, then throw it over the pool down into the lower garden. Almost as soon as my arm falls to a vertical position, he is back with it again––everything in life seeming to speed up as I slow down.
Now, hours of insomnia and fewer hours of sleep later, I hear him whining on the other side of the security bars outside the open bedroom sliders. He would now have his morning come on more rapidly as I lie, computer on chest, writing my morning blog. I have slowed the world down for long enough. I find an appropriate ending and swing my feet to the floor, in search of Crocs. Time to get in line with the faster world’s schedule, at least for the time it takes to feed the dogs and cats.
Click on any photo to enlarge all.
The prompt today is rapid.
For the two hours that we were in the plaza of the French Bakery, this little dog went from table to table for a friendly visit. When someone made the mistake of giving him a piece of bacon from their breakfast croissant, he became demanding, thrusting his head up into the lap of anyone still unfortunate enough to be eating. He would run to the table of a rather crabby couple with a dog of their own, barking at the other dog, bringing frowns on the faces of its owners. When I tried to call him away from them, they started frowning at me instead, thinking he belonged to me.
I couldn’t resist taking photos as he zigged here and there, trying to decide which way to go. When a new omelette or bacon croissant arrived at a table, it solved his dilemma and he came to semi-rest. Insistent and often vocal, he tracked the arrival of any food at any table. One by one, as people got up from their tables, they came over to my table to ask if this was my dog. No, it belonged to someone in the neighborhood, I told them. This is what the owner of the bakery had told me and I believed him, but I don’t think anyone really believed me.
Click on any photo and then on arrows to enlarge and view all.
For Cee’s Which Way Challenge.
Bark of dog,
Meow of cat.
takes care of that
with pop of can
and clink of dishes.
all these wishes,
back to bed.
Write my blogs.
Out of bed.
Put on togs.
Make a smoothie.
for writers’ meetings.
Lots of words
and lots of greetings.
to write some more.
at my door.
Once a week
a heavenly rub.
soak in the tub.
Pat the cats,
throw balls for Morrie.
Write some more,
the same old story.
Talk to Dux
many a time
throughout the day.
Sometimes with rhyme.
Midnight finds me
in the pool
and Morrie’s rule.
Throw the ball
for him to fetch.
reach and stretch
to retrieve the ball
he throws at me.
Then loft it over
bush and tree
to lower garden
for him to find.
This is our nightly
Go in to bed
to write some more.
Get up to check
I’ve locked the door.
Trips to the vet
to trim or cure.
Coffee with friends,
or dinner out.
trips to the shore,
without a doubt.
Lives grow and change
often with time.
So this is just
The prompt word today is typical.
See how the young dog darts and nips
at the old dog’s neck and hips?
Anxious on this glorious day
to jump and scamper, tease and play.
With one year only to his name,
his entire life’s a game.
The older dog, his conquests made,
calmly commandeers the shade.
Winded, panting, tired, sore,
he lies there for five minutes more,
then springs to life, ready again
to be the dog he was back when.
Family Thanks Giving
Three dogs, paws up on the gate to the garage whenever I get home. The little one leaps up and down like some ballerina at the bar, the biggest with his irritating barks–loud and harsh and insistent—for whatever reason, be it mom’s arrival home or a dog who dares to pass by in the street. All of them escorting me to the door, attempting to help me with my bags and bundles.
The big dog sneaking into my room at night when she thinks I haven’t noticed. Wanting to be even closer than within eye-shot down the hall, she sleeps on the cold floor in lieu of her warm padded bed, perhaps because she wants to remind me that although the second dog is cleverer and handsomer and the newest dog is the littlest and most pleasant to have jump up on the bed with me, she was the very first and has known me for the longest. She has put up with intruders—both these two canine upstarts and the one human one who entered my house and stole my house guest’s laptop years ago when she was my one and only!
And although I am allergic to them, I wash off the licks of thanks that Morrie gives for a few cuddles on the bed before he sinks down to the foot to curl at a more hypoallergenic distance. Wash off my hands and arms after I’ve pulled off clumps of Frida’s thick undercoat. Dress the wounds that Diego’s claws have left on my legs and arms when he just can’t resist jumping up for closer contact. All of these wounds and welts and sneezes and wheezes just the aftermath of the constant thanks these kids adopted from the streets offer every day, as often as I will allow them.
This is a reblog from three years ago when we were a three-dog one-cat family instead of a two-dog five-cat family! R.I.P. Frida. The prompt today is allergic.