We seem to be in the midst of the dog days of June. With the temperature forecast to hit 99 degrees today, I could not bear to make my weekly provision-gathering expedition to The Devil's Playground. I suspect it is hotter than a sauna in H-E-doublehockeysticks in there.
The Pony and Farmer H have sought respite in the belly of Poolio. The dogs are holed up in dusty depressions under the vehicles, panting like a woman who has just finished a marathon and is now in the throes of childbirth. I have gone underground, to the cool confines of my basement lair. The chickens seem not to feel the heat. They are scratching and pecking in the woods, and did not hesitate one iota to run out into the bright sun for a treat of stale bread around noon. The goats seem to thrive in these conditions. They have plenty of shade, even though they've eaten the limbs and leaves off all the trees to a height they could reach from their hind legs. They enjoyed a snack of Granny Smith apples. Of course, they enjoy just about anything they can chew, be it thorny rosebushes or car seat upholstery.
Farmer H may be delirious from the heat. He volunteered to BBQ our supper. Nothing a man likes better on a 99-degree day than to sit beside a metal grill full of glowing charcoal.
I have been waiting since mid-February for this heat wave to break.