Gassing Up The Pony

The Pony needs fuel to complete the daily 11-mile walking route. I picked him up on Sunday afternoon for our planned "shopping trip" which was a thinly-disguised effort to give me a workout in the grocery store. It went well. The Pony bought some foodstuffs, and I felt energized walking around the store pushing my cart/walker. It was a good knee day.

Anyhoo... I had gone an hour earlier than our usual meeting time, because The Pony had plans for supper. I mistakenly thought The Pony was cooking, but found out the plans involved meeting a friend at a Mexican restaurant.

"It's a new place out on the highway. I was actually there last night, too. One of my friends is going through a breakup, so I took her out to dinner."

That's our Pony! A really good egg, there to comfort a friend during hard times.

Anyhoo... later that evening, The Pony sent me a picture of his meal:

According to The Pony, it's a burrito, with tilapia, beans, rice, and some salsa. I don't see all that in the picture. Perhaps that's the contents of the burrito. Though I've never heard of fish in a burrito.

Anyhoo... I'm happy that The Pony had time to kick up his heels before returning to the grindstone.

The Pony Has Good Intentions

I'm meeting The Pony on Sunday to collect the monthly house payment. Generally, I stop by and The Pony comes out to T-Hoe with the checkbook, and I give him some treats I might have picked up since the last time we were together. Sorry, Pony! No treats this time! Just a bottle of wine Farmer H got somewhere, and a new pair of shoes, and some gummi vitamins to get you through the winter cold season.

Anyhoo... sometimes we get to talking while sitting there. I prefer to not get out and navigate the steps into Pony's house. This time, The Pony suggested we could go to a store, like we did a few months ago after depositing the QuickFlip check in the bank.

Heh, heh! The Pony is trying to exercise me! Like on the sitcom King of Queens, with Leah Remini and Kevin James, where they pay a dog-walker friend to "walk" her elderly father who lives with them. To be fair, I have been cutting back, and have lost 44 pounds. Still, my knees give me trouble, and I can't just go out and walk around the porch and in the driveway like years past. I'm afraid I might fall. My balance is not good, and just a bump from Scarlett could topple me over. But in a store, I have the cart to use as a walker! Something to help with my balance.

Anyhoo... we are planning a trip just down the street to Country Mart. The Pony has some shopping to do, and I can pick up a few things I didn't get on Thursday.

The Pony has even volunteered to spearhead my return to the Devil's Playground! I haven't been there since THE VIRUS, when they made people go through the cattle chutes to enter through only one door, and follow arrows on the aisles to make them one-way. That rankled me, and I haven't been back. But The Pony says he will trot to get me a cart to push as I walk in. I might actually give it a try one day. 

I'm not getting any younger, but I WOULD like to be able to get around better. I am loathe to use a cane for everyday activities, because I fear that once I start, it will become permanent.

Mrs. HM Gets Caught In Her Own Wicked Web

Friday afternoon, I was texting The Pony, and had made a call to Farmer H concerning our Double Hovel Flip House(s). Upon trying a second call to Farmer H fifteen minutes later, I was shunted to voicemail. Nope. It's not like he listens to his voicemail. So I sent a text. Then The Pony sent me another one. Then I got a call through to Farmer H again. You know where this is leading, right?

"Dad went by and left a note for the realtor. OH NO!"

"You sent that to me not Pony"

"Oops! Now I have to type more!"

Heh, heh! It's not that my message was so terribly bad. At least The Pony's response, when I finally sent my text to the right person, was:

"I love him, but...wow he can be a bit frustrating/like a dumbass sometimes. Like, please do not antagonize the woman selling the house."

Poor Farmer H. Much-maligned, but with a track record for inviting it.

Three-Ring Circus At The Grocery Store

Don't waste your money on entertainment! All you have to do is go to the grocery store. Where you will certainly spend more of that hard-earned money than you used to. 

I went to Country Mart on my errand day Thursday. I was so lucky to get the closest handicap parking space, and find a cart waiting for me when I stepped out of T-Hoe. That was about the end of my luck. As I wheeled my cart/walker in through the front double doors, making a right turn for the lottery machines first... I heard a guy talking behind me.

"Come on! I know you. You need to go to the bathroom. Not in the store!"

A quick glance revealed a guy in camo fatigue pants, and a sleeveless black t-shirt. He had a white pit-bull-looking dog on a leash. They went out. But not for good! As I shopped, I encountered them no less than five times! The guy gave the dog a long lead on his leash. The dog was well-behaved. I don't begrudge a person having a support dog in a store. They don't make me fear for my life.

The guy was talking to the dog the whole time. Not commands, just commentary. Which I suppose was comforting for the dog. "No. She don't want none of that. Mind your manners." Stuff like that. I was tempted to ask if the dog was in training, but I didn't want to intervene. Several people stopped to pet the dog.

"I'm getting him used to the store. This is where we will do our shopping. So he's learning the lay of the land. I don't usually let people pet him, but he isn't actually working right now. I didn't put his harness on. That's his clue that he's working. He loves people and being petted. So I don't mind right now."

The dog was clean and calm. He was not lunging on his leash. Just curious. Tail up and wagging. Being a short-haired, lean dog, it was easy to see that he still had his family jewels attached. I don't know why I thought support dogs would be neutered. I suppose because it would make them less excitable. Still, I did not mind having that dog in the store. It was just unusual.

Then I went to the bread aisle, which is in the back. There was an empty supply cart with three trays stacked in the wheels. And a gal sitting on the floor. Thank the Gummi Mary, she was not in front of the hot dog buns, English muffins, and Hawaiian bread that I wanted to buy. She was obviously done stocking. Just sitting there, acting busy pushing around items on the shelves. It was 3:45 p.m. I'm guessing she was sitting there out of sight, waiting for her work day to end. I don't know if she was a contractor, or a store employee. But such activity made me suspicious of her milking the clock.

When I checked out, the cashier seemed to have lost her mind. I set one of my three Diet Mountain Dew packs on the counter, telling her I had three. She scanned it, and I lifted it back into my cart/walker. But then she said, "Oh, no!" Something wrong with her signing onto the register. So I had to heft it out again for another scanning. And when she bagged Farmer H's two boxes of Little Debbie Zebra Cakes, she put them in like a complete idiot! You know how a plastic bag has the two handles, and the seam along the bottom? Most people would put a long box along that seam. But this gal put them perpendicular! Not even cattywompus, as if by accident. She had those boxes sideways in the bag. So I had to change them when I put them in T-Hoe's rear. Leaving them sideways was just asking for the corners to tear the bag.

You'd think a trip to the grocery store would be uneventful. But not for Mrs. HM.

Farmer H, Asserting His Place As Expert Of All Things

Nothing much happening around here, but at least I have my fall-back subject of Farmer H and his unparalleled expertise at every subject under the sun.

You may recall that he does his own laundry, because 35 years ago, he refused to put his dirty clothes in the hamper for me to wash. Choosing instead to leave them on the bedroom floor. I don't think it was too much to ask for him to put them in the hamper. He, apparently, DID!

Anyhoo... the joke's on Farmer H, since he's been doing his own laundry for a lifetime now. When I left for town on Wednesday, he said he had some laundry to do. He was putting it in the washer as I went out the door. When I got home 45 minutes later, I heard the dryer going. 

I had Farmer H's supper ready at 5:30. He was eating, and I sat down to scratch my lottery tickets. I wasn't paying any attention to him. He's a grown man. He can eat without supervision, and fetch his laundry for folding. I didn't note the time when he came to get his clothes, and put another load in the washer or dryer. 

Again, I don't know the exact timeline. I was preoccupied with scratchers. Farmer H came back to the kitchen for his dessert of Mexican Cheesecake from the Senior Center the day before. He might have fiddled with his laundry at the time. 

What I DO remember is that as I was returning from the bathroom at 7:20, Farmer H asked if the dryer was still going. Yes, it was. I also remember that at 7:45, Farmer H came to the laundry room, and said, "Huh. It's still going." I only noticed because I then checked the time, wondering when I was going to start my own supper.

At 8:05, a time when Farmer H usually is getting ready for bed, I hollered to ask, "How long is your laundry going to be drying?"

"HM! It's on a TIMER!"

Said Farmer H, obviously the Master of All Laundry, ASSuming that I don't understand how a dryer works. Seriously. How could Farmer H THINK his dryer might be done at 7:20, when it was still running 45 minutes later??? It's like he must have just started it around 7:20! No way would it be done that soon, if it still had more than 45 minutes to go!

Farmer H then came to the laundry room, and said, "It's done enough." And took out his clothes for folding. 

Silly me. Not understanding how a dryer works...

Farmer H Has A Problem With Portion Control

Since the last time Farmer H bought dogfood, our fleabags have grown roly-poly. Scarlett can carry the weight better than half-weiner Jack. But they are both rotund. How can that be, when I walk out and see food remaining in their food bowls? 

I have broached this topic with Farmer H. His response was that the dogs are eating something else. "Jack must be eating baby rabbits." No specific excuse for Scarlett. I first had assumed the dogs do not like the current brand of food, since their dishes remain at least half-full. But that does not explain their weight gain.

Monday, Farmer H said he had to buy dogfood again, because he ran out.

"If you wouldn't overfeed them, you wouldn't run out so fast."

"HM. I only give them two cups of food! I am NOT overfeeding them!"

Well. We know how that goes. By "cups," Farmer H means the cup he leaves in the trash can full of dry dogfood, which he uses to scoop out the morning allotment. It is NOT a measuring cup. In fact, when I looked in Scarlett's leftover food on Sunday, the bowl was at least 3/4 full. And by my assessment, the food was at least 3 measuring cups. Maybe more. I don't know if Farmer H is saying that he gives them two "cups" total, or two "cups" each.

I imagine that the bag of dogfood says how much to feed dogs by weight. It probably mentions "cups." Meaning the actual measurement, not some vessel used by dog owners to scoop out the food.

I don't know how I can make this situation clear to Farmer H. He is not very receptive to my suggestions...

Despite The Calendar Date, Yesterday Was The 15th

Leaving town yesterday, I got behind a slow driver. It was a truck pulling an empty trailer, going 30 mph in a 45 mph zone. He was impeding a maroon SUV ahead of me, and T-Hoe. I don't know the reason for his slowness. The speed limit is clearly marked. The road is mostly straight. I don't understand the reason for driving 15 mph under the speed limit.

Anyhoo... that driver turned off in the area where the speed limit changed to 55 mph, just outside of town, nearing the prison. However... that maroon SUV, no longer impeded by that slow-driving truck and trailer, only accelerated to 40 mph! So we were STILL going 15 mph below the speed limit. It continued past the prison, around a sharp curve, and down a hill nearing my turn-off on the county blacktop road.

But wait! Around the curve, we came upon a TRACTOR! A green tractor, with an old man driving, flashing lights on, going a LITERAL 15 mph!

I can understand why a tractor is slow. I know it has to be transported occasionally on the public roadways. I just worry that some inattentive driver will slam into the back of T-Hoe, not paying attention. 

Anyhoo... as we neared the long high bridge before my turnoff, the maroon SUV passed the tractor. Then there was ample room for me to pass. And the white sedan behind me. I made my left turn without incident, and proceeded home at the regular speed limit. Well... perhaps a little bit over. It's not like police patrol that county blacktop road.

It's unusual to encounter three such obstacles in one day, on a two-mile stretch of road.

The Attractive Opposites

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that Farmer H and Mrs. HM are attractive. We are not what one might call "pleasing to the eye." No. I'm acknowledging that sometimes, the old "opposites attract" theory is true. 

The clock in the master bathroom has not been working for a few weeks. It keeps time, but the WRONG time. It has been 10 minutes slow for a while. And then 8 hours slow! I figured the battery must be low, which is how this has happened before. So I asked Farmer H:

"What do you think that bathroom clock takes? An  AA battery?"

Assuming, of course, that Farmer H would get a battery out of the battery drawer in the Mansion kitchen, and replace the faulty one in the clock. But no. You know what happens when we ASSume.

"Yeah. That's probably what it takes."

You'd think Farmer H might want to know the proper time, since he's the one who gets up around 5:30, and goes to town to meet up with Old Buddy for Flip House or mowing or Storage Unit Store projects. Sure, he has his cell phone on the counter beside the sink. But it's different to go to the phone and click on it, rather than to glance at a clock on the wall.

Finally, on Saturday, I laid out an AA battery on the cutting block. I told Farmer H as he was getting himself a snack before supper. As I warmed up his supper an hour later, I spied that AA battery on the floor! And not on the side of the cutting block where I had put it. Farmer H came to the kitchen to gather his supper, and return to his recliner.

"How did that battery get on the floor?"

"I don't know. I didn't do it!"

"Funny how it fell off the cutting block, and rolled around the floor to another side of the cutting block."

"I don't know how that happened, but I know that I didn't do it!"

That story would not stand up to cross-examination in a court of law! But at least Farmer H picked up the battery, and eventually put it in the bathroom clock. I noticed on Sunday, as I was getting ready for my shower before town. That clock seemed to be in a somewhat accurate mode. Even though upon checking my cell phone, I discovered that it was five minutes slow.

That's the thing about Farmer H. He always sets a clock five minutes slow! All of them during Daylight Savings Time start and end. Every clock he touches is five minutes slow! There's no logical reason for that. I'm sure he consults his cell phone for the time. Then I suppose he subtracts five minutes!

I, on the other hand, set all clocks two minutes fast. I do it on purpose. I like that little cushion, in case I am trying to get to the living room to start watching a TV show. 

I guess we are truly like Jack Sprat and wife. Although we both eat fat and lean.

Mrs. HM Is The WAH-WAH Teacher Voice To Farmer H's Charlie Brown Ears

I don't know why Farmer H just can't listen to the voice of reason. Which of course you know is MY voice! I actually have some common sense. Ideas that are practical.

For example, back when my Sweet, Sweet Juno went over the Rainbow Bridge to live on a big farm upstate... I told Farmer H that he should dump out the bedding in her doghouse that sits by the kitchen door, in an alcove out of the wind. I figured Jack might start sleeping in it, rather than in a hollow he dug out of a haybale over on Shackytown Boulevard, by the old goat pen.

Juno had not been sleeping in her house as her health declined. She had some trouble getting around, leaking pee sometimes. So I suppose she abandoned her cedar shavings, and moved into one of the big plastic doghouses on the opposite end of the porch, outside our bedroom. Both dogs sometimes went to those houses, and had the shavings all scratched out between them. It used to annoy Farmer H. They'd lie on the pile of shavings, rather than in the houses, heh, heh.

It's been over a year now. Whatever remains in Juno's house has definitely dried out, but I imagine it might still contain some of her scent. I told Farmer H again, right after he let Scarlett loose for the final time, that she might use that house if he cleaned it out.

Well. Scarlett wanted nothing to do with any kind of house at that time, having just gained her freedom, not wanting to be trapped again. But over her first winter, she used a doghouse by the bedroom, one of which Farmer H had used in the yard for her when she was tethered there.

Anyhoo... a couple mornings ago, I heard a terrible commotion outside the kitchen door. I figured it must be Scarlett, pawing at the doormat, getting ready to lie down. When I left for town, I saw a bunch of blue crumbly stuff there. Which I presumed to be insulation from inside Juno's house.

Saturday morning, sitting on the short couch talking to Farmer H before he left for his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2), we heard that commotion again.

"It's something in Juno's old house, I'm pretty sure. Probably Scarlett!"

Farmer H went to look. I did not hear him speak. But he returned and said it WAS Scarlett.

"See? It's getting cooler overnight. I bet she'd use that house if you'd get Juno's old pee out of it. You just dump it off the porch. I don't know the big deal. I think Scarlett's trying to dig it out."

"That insulation is on the walls! The pee wouldn't be on the walls!"

Huh. I don't know how insulation repels pee that might be along the bottom of the walls. But I guess I'll take Farmer H's word for that. I still don't know why he won't just tip that doghouse on its door, then sweep the shavings off the back porch.

I guess it makes too much sense. Better to keep an unused doghouse outside the kitchen door, with cardboard boxes stacked on top that he's been meaning to put on his burn pile.

I think that would make a good house for Scarlett, and Jack would probably join her in there. Jack and Juno were pals, but didn't sleep in the same house. Jack follows Scarlett around like a lost puppy, and will lie down right next to her on the porch. She tolerates him pretty well, unless food is involved. I'm going to keep WAH-WAH-ing at Farmer H until he gets that house ready for habitation.

Meanwhile, I've also got to persuade him that he's putting out too much food again, or not buying the kind they like.

Everyone's A Comedian

We all know that Farmer H was born without a funny bone. But like how the sun even shines on a dog's rumpus some days... occasionally Farmer H spouts something funny.

Farmer H's paid assistant Old Buddy has not been feeling well. With his car broken down, Farmer H picked him up and drove him around for the work they were doing on Thursday. When they left Lowe's, Old Buddy told Farmer H he needed to stop somewhere, QUICK, because he was feeling a bit indisposed. They were working on something at Farmer H's "new" storage unit, so Old Buddy used the Port-A-Potty there.

Old Buddy did not want Farmer H to pick him up to go to the SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2) on Friday. He had a doctor's appointment. Supposedly a friend was taking him. Farmer H called to check on Old Buddy. 

"I'm just waiting for the cab to come take me to the doctor."

"I would have taken you! All you had to do was tell me! I thought your friend was doing it."

"Well, we found out she had to work. So it was too late to call anybody else. I'm getting a test. They're going to stick a tube down my throat, and a tube up my butt."

"I hope they're going to use two different tubes." Said Farmer H, the stand-up comedian.

My Hero Is Not The Brightest Bulb In The Marquee

Wednesday night, Farmer H's attention was caught by a bug flying around his recliner. He reached up his arms and clapped his hands, trying to smash it.

"WAIT! That's a WASP! It was in the kitchen yesterday, buzzing around the windows. I didn't have my flyswatter within reach. It's going to sting you if you clap it!"

"Huh."

The wasp retreated from the air wave from Farmer H's clapped hands. 

"It's over by the TV! Up on the bowling trophies!"

Farmer H picked up an envelope from something important I had given him to read, that he'd never bothered to throw away. He got up and went to the TV area. The wasp took flight again. Farmer H batted at it with his envelope several times. 

HOME RUN! Farmer H hit the wasp, and it went spiraling over to a cushion on the long couch. Farmer H went after it.

"WAIT! Don't pick it up! Here. Use this." I handed him a tissue from the box on the table beside the recliner. Tissues he had won at Senior Center bingo.

Farmer H grabbed that stunned wasp with the tissue, crunched it, and took it to flush in the boys' bathroom at the end of the hall.

MY FEARLESS HERO. Though not a mental giant sometimes...

Like Water Off A Duck's Back, Responsibility Is Repelled By Farmer H

Farmer H brought me a Senior Center pulled-pork lunch for my supper on Tuesday. That was a good deed, though requested by me. But don't let that cloud your thinking! Of course we're here to complain about Farmer H!!!

That lunch came with an actual slice of cake this time. The menu listed it as "wedding cake," as it had before, when they sent some weird cheesecake thingy. We all know that the elderlies are not getting married on a monthly basis and serving their cake with a $5 meal. It's just that when a menu says CAKE, I expect cake. And this time, they came through. Except that I did not want the cake.

Oh, I was interested in the cake. I asked Farmer H to open it and tell me what was in the container. He was at the cutting block, unpacking the plastic bag he had brought home. He took out two small square foam containers, then the larger container with my lunch/dinner. I didn't really pay attention as Farmer H was fiddling with those containers, to put them in FRIG II.

"Huh. This one here is my leftover pulled pork. I'll have that tonight. Here. This is your cake. And yes, it's really cake! Here, I'll show you. Huh. How did THAT happen? It's upside down."

Farmer H carried it over to the counter so I could see what was in the container. Indeed, it was a piece of white cake, which looked like it had white icing. Since the icing was on the bottom, I couldn't quite tell.

"Oh. You can have the cake. It's okay."

"Are you sure? I already had some for lunch. It's good."

"Yeah, but it's upside down and all messy. I don't want it."

"I don't know how that happened."

"You probably turned it upside down when you took it out to open it. You have a habit of opening those containers from the bottom. You don't look at how the tab slides into the slot. That's how you can tell."

"I didn't do it! That gal must have done it when she put the cake in there!"

"So you're saying that instead of you making a mistake trying to figure out how to open it, the lady who makes up the carryout meals PUT THE CAKE IN UPSIDED DOWN? Or maybe that she FLIPPED OVER THE CONTAINER TO PUT IT IN THE BAG?"

"No. I'm just saying I know I didn't do it."

Sweet Gummi Mary!!! Which scenario is more likely? There's no way that cake could have turned itself over inside the container, because it was a big square that didn't have room to tip over.

It's not a big deal. I probably would have given him the cake anyway, maybe after a taste. I usually give him the desserts (not that I'm trying to kill him, of course). Farmer H has done this with containers for years, mostly with things that don't matter, like breadsticks or rolls. How hard is it to say, 'Yeah, I might have turned it over.'" 

Is Mrs. HM The Rumpushole: Horse Festival Edition

As The Pony and I headed towards the Mansion, passing a multitude of vehicles parked at Barn Neighbor's field for the Horse Festival... I could see something in the road. 

At first I was more concerned about the people walking along the road, and didn't dwell on it.

If you look really far, you can see it. Something blue in the middle of the road. Our 10 acres next to the BARn field start where that group of trees is on the right.

Getting closer, I saw that blue object was a portable shade tent thingy. A man and little boy around 6 years old looked like they were setting it up. 

I crept along, not wanting to spook any of the horses that The Pony so skillfully avoided photographing! Here is a zoomed-in photo to show that blue object.

Here's part of that wild crowd, heh, heh. Behind the vehicle and 4-wheeler and side-by-side ATV is a white portable shade tent thingy, with four or five women sitting under it, sipping beverages. You can see the white roof of the Port-A-Potty. I guess being close to it was better than being farther from the smell, if they had to go in a hurry!

I realized that this guy was putting that blue portable shade tent thingy onto our land. Huh. What in the Not-Heaven? I may not stand up for myself when people cut in line, or a cashier throws my bananas, but I'll be danged if I don't investigate somebody appearing to make themselves at home on our property.

"Pony. Put your window down. I'm going to ask this guy what's going on. He's on our land."

"Okaaaayyyy." Said The Pony, with a heavy sigh that comes out when he would rather a problem just go away. The Pony has never liked confrontation.

"Hi. Are you planning to leave that there?"

"Oh, no. I was just getting it out of your way."

"That's a relief. Because it's on our property, and we're not having a party! So I wondered what was going on."

"We're going to move it over there."

"That's great! You all have a good time!"

"Thanks! We will."

See? Problem solved. But then I started wondering if I WAS THE RUMPUSHOLE! When Farmer H got home, we told him, and I asked if he would have stopped to talk to the guy about that portable shade tent thingy being on our land. And Farmer H said probably not! I call shenanigans!

Here's the thing. If they set up one shade tent over there, how did I know they wouldn't have other people set up shade tents? Or park there. Or move a camper up in the field where it opens up past the trees. Or ride those 4-wheelers and side-by-sides around there. Then somebody might go off exploring down in the woods, and fall into the big sinkhole that's in there. Or somebody could get hurt, or Jack could go investigate and bite them. So much COULD go wrong. You never know. That's why we have a million-dollar umbrella insurance policy. Even criminals and trespassers can sue you for an injury on your property.

Anyhoo... I was polite. I only asked that guy's intentions, and made it clear we did not expect anybody to be on land during this event.

Does that make me the rumpushole?

________________________________________________________________

Upon further relection, I'm wondering why that guy couldn't just move his shade tent out of the way on HIS SIDE OF THE ROAD? Since that was where he was supposedly going to putting it anyway...

________________________________________________________________

The Great "Dog Track" Mystery Is Solved

When I started to town at noon on Sunday, to pick up The Pony for our Labor Day grill feast... I immediately discovered what was going on in our neighbor's field(s). Cars, trucks, and trailers were lined up along our gravel road. Parked with two tires on the grass, but still cutting our road down to one lane. 

Our across-the-road Neighbor had parked her car in her driveway, thus blocking people from driving down there and parking at her house or in her field. I'm pretty sure she had a hand in this event, since I saw her walking back to her house along the road, a walkie talkie kind of implement in her hand.

I made it past all the vehicles. The two fields were teeming with people and horses. I bet there were 100 people, and at least 20 horses that I observed on my way out.

Once I had The Pony riding shotgun, I told him he was responsible for getting me pictures of the event as we returned home. The Pony DID get pictures, but they don't nearly convey the true range of this spectacle! In the hour it took me to pick up The Pony and return, most of the vehicles parked along the roadway had either left, or been parked in front of Barn Neighbor's house, or in the bottom half of the second field.

The Pony barely got pictures of any of the horses. Their riders were wearing numbers, so apparently it was some type of jumping competition. I was worried about where the horses would get water. It was hot, and the creek on that side where the Barn Neighbor and Neighbors live is only a wet-weather creek. Sure, the riders could have walked or ridden the horses down the gravel road to the main creek near the mailboxes where there's access without getting on someone else's property. I don't know how problematic that might have been for the horses on hilly gravel.

Anyhoo... here are some of The Pony's pictures:

Some cars parked in front of Barn Neighbor's house and barn.

Another view of the vehicles parked on both sides of Barn Neighbor's driveway, as we start up the hill towards our BARn field.

Past the Barn Neighbor's driveway now, and you can see some of the trailers, and other vehicles in T-Hoe's mirror, that were in front of Barn Neighbor's yard.

You can see the roadside is basically empty of vehicles by now, but people have set up their lawn chairs along the road, to watch the happenings in the field.

I can't believe The Pony got almost NO PICTURES of all the horses in the two fields! This was definitely a horse-jumping competition, and nothing to do with a dog track!

Tomorrow, we will discuss an incident...

Farmer H Needs A Tomato Refresher Course

Farmer H has been receiving tomatoes from his buddies who have gardens. He brings them home in a plastic bag from the Devil's Playground. You would think that somewhere during his many years in The Universe, Farmer H would have accrued some information about home-grown tomatoes. Then again, he must have been snoozing on the day it was revealed that goats are herd animals...

Garden tomatoes are more fragile than the hard-as-a-baseball store tomatoes. Flopping them around in a plastic bag does them no favors. So far, they have survived the rough treatment.

Saturday morning, Farmer H came out of the bedroom and went directly to the front door. That's unusual. His first stop is usually the back door in the laundry room, when he gives water to the dogs. Then he comes to sit on the long couch to wait and "secretly" listen in on my phone conversation with The Pony.

"Where are you going?"

"To the truck. I forgot, I had some tomatoes to bring in."

"So they sat in a bag in your truck all day, in THIS HEAT?"

"They weren't hot. They were in the truck!"

I heard Farmer H rustling the plastic bag as he set out the tomatoes. He inconveniently puts them on a sturdy paper plate. The one resting atop the stack of sturdy paper plates that Farmer H uses each night to eat his supper. So if I set out a plate for him, I have to first lift off the plate of garden tomatoes. Heh, heh! Starting last night, I told Farmer H he needed to get his own plate. To which he replied, "Huh."

Anyhoo... after Farmer H left for a day of selling at his SUS2 (Storage Unit Store 2), I went to the kitchen to get my banana. The bananas are in a large fruit bowl sitting behind the stack of sturdy paper plates.

There were two large tomatoes in this batch. I picked up a little one, looking like a Roma tomato, to set aside for my supper salad, and it SLIMED ME! What in the Not-Heaven? It looked perfectly fine. I looked at the plate. It was wet. I picked up the biggest tomato. It had apparently sprung a leak. No visible hole in it, but it was seeping from the bottom, where there were some creases in its skin. 

No way was I going to harbor a leaky tomato in MY Mansion! Once upon a time, when I rented a ramshackle house in Cuba, MO, my grandma had sent me a box of tomatoes when my mom and dad came for a visit. They were in a box like a flat of strawberries would come in. A waxy kind of brown cardboard with low sides. I set it on the floor by the cabinets, since I didn't have much counter room. Mmm... those fresh tomatoes were SO GOOD. I ate a couple every night. 

The following weekend, I left on Saturday morning to go to Springfield and visit a friend. Upon returning Sunday afternoon, a terrible smell hit me as I walked in! One of those tomatoes had gone bad, and most of its fluid had seeped out into that cardboard box. Thank the Gummi Mary, the cardboard was waxy, or that liquid would have soaked into the carpet of the kitchen floor. Yes. Somebody had actually carpeted a kitchen floor!

Anyhoo... I have since grown cautious about inspecting tomatoes daily, to make sure they're not leaking. In this case, I checked the other tomatoes, and the next-biggest had a bruisy dark mushy spot. Out it went with the leaker, off the back porch, good riddance!

I'm sure Farmer H thinks the day closed up in a plastic bag in his truck did not affect those home-grown tomatoes. I'm pretty sure it did.

The Plot Definitely Thickens

When I left for town on Saturday afternoon at 3:45, the dogs did not come to greet me. I tossed their tiny treat on the side porch anyway. As I proceeded from the driveway onto the gravel road, I saw my dogs! They were standing in the BARn field, perhaps 1/3 of the way off the road, looking into that Dog Track Horse Jump field! Not barking. Just standing. Scarlett, Jack, and Copper Jack. 

There was a man in the Dog Track Horse Jump field, messing with the coils of wire on the fence. As I proceeded down the gravel road, I saw a jump in the OTHER field! Well. That threw me for a loop. I had assumed it would be a parking area. 

But wait! When I came home an hour later, I saw a truck coming down Farmer H and Buddy's Badly Blacktopped (and subsequently dug up) Hill. I waited for it to come down, and pass by me on the other hill where the traveling meth lab had been confiscated by the sheriff's department. That truck, flatbed trailer attached, went by me without even a courtesy wave! Must have been that guy messing with the Dog Track Horse Field fence. A stranger out here.

Upon passing the Barn Neighbor's house, I saw that there had been considerable activity in the field next to the house. There were mulitple horse jumps set up! The kind with white poles that had stripes, some used as rails, some in an X shape. I bet there were at least five jumps of that kind! And in the other field with the Port-A-Potty, I saw a CAMPER! The kind you pull behind a truck. About the size a hunter might use for deer camp. 

What in the NOT-HEAVEN??? There is no water or electric hook-up in that field. The oddest thing is that I saw ZERO horses or horse trailers!

I mentioned this to Farmer H when he got home. He said he thought the camper might be used for registration. WHAT? How many people would actually be coming to this "event?" Farmer H said he was surprised that there is no room to park trucks and horse trailers. Yeah. Unless they can line them around the outer edge of each field.

This venture grows curiouser and curiouser. I hope nobody brings dogs! I hope my dogs stay in the BARn field. Scarlett is just pretty enough that somebody might want to take her. No collar. We lost two cats over two different Labor Day weekends. I'm hoping Scarlett is skittish enough now that she won't approach that crew. She did her barking on Thursday at the UPS man, and then retreated to the porch, where she wouldn't even go get the treat he tossed for her.

I can't wait for Sunday and Monday, to see if there are actual horses going over those jumps...