Today's errands included a trip to the bank, which was filled with clucker-fustery, the weekly Devil's Playground mission, and one stop for water and one stop for a 44 oz Diet Coke.
The bank story must wait for another day, as will The Devil. Perhaps they can become a two-fer. Today, we are complaining about the milk of human kindness. And by we, I mean me, myself, I, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, and her close personal friend, Val T.
I had every intention of making a cup of ice water before leaving The Mansion bright and early at 9:00 a.m. (because my body still thinks it's 10:00), because dealing with The Devil gives Mrs. HM a powerful thirst. Makes her want ice water, in fact. But I forgot.
I headed first to the dead-mouse-smelling post office, to mail the weekly letters for the #1 son and The Pony. I was dismayed to hear those two envelopes clank onto the bottom of the drive-thru mailbox. It was only 9:15, by cracky, and the mail goes out at 11:00, and that box should have been stuffed with weekend mail. So I think they're up to no good again at that stinky rodent facility.
This morning I varied my route, and went to the bank first. I knew I would have cotton mouth by the time I was halfway through The Devil's Playground. So on the way there from the bank, I stopped by a Casey's to get a bottle of water. Okay. The main reason for the stop was some scratch-off tickets. I figured I could pick up a bottle of water there, too. Besides, I was running low on change. I figured I could break a twenty, and have some ones and coinage for my daily 44 oz Diet Coke exact change.
The Casey's clerk was very nice. She's the one who tipped me off to a cheaper, paper funnel when I bought a quart of oil there during T-Hoe's unfortunate near-incapacitation. The total ended in "...and five cents." Perfect! A whole passel o' change for my coin cup! Couldn't be better! Clerky handed back my ones, and said sweetly, "I took care of the cents for you, sweetie."
DANG! She kept my magnificent would-be haul of 95 cents, to give me a dollar instead. I couldn't complain to her. She was so nice. So I went without the change.
Even Steven observes all, though. And when I was in The Devil's Playground, with my nose pressed against the hot deli case, persuaded me to forego the chicken wings in favor of an 8-piece packaged fried chicken deal.
I'd like to know where The Devil gets his chickens. When I got home, I found that my 8 pieces were 3 legs, 1 thigh, and 4 breasts.
Monday, November 7, 2016
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Goldilocks, I'll Call You When They're Hiring
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has found a new fast-food treat. It's the Hardees/Red Burrito Grilled Chicken Bowl.
I had one of these last weekend make that the one before, because he was gone to Sweden this past weekend), when Farmer H wanted me to bring him a taco salad. Of course I wanted a taco salad, but after an argument with myself in T-Hoe on the way there, I twisted my arm behind my back and agreed to make a wiser choice. So Grilled Chicken Bowl it was. And for only 430 calories! You can't beat that with a stick! Or with the tasty shell of a taco salad.
The chicken bowl comes in a plastic bowl (thus the name), and is more substantial than you might think. Starting from the bottom, it contains a layer of Spanish rice, a layer of refried beans, some chunks of grilled chicken, a sprinkling of shredded cheddar, a smattering of salsa, and a dollop of sour cream. Nom-nom!
I admit that I have sampled it three times now. The original taste, then after a long day at the casino with my favorite gambling aunt, and today, which was not planned, but will be discussed elsewhere. After three samples, it is evident that Hardees/Red Burrito needs to hire Goldilocks for quality control purposes.
The first chicken bowl had a lot of rice. In fact, it was mostly rice, but there was enough of the other stuff to make Mrs. HM say, "What do you expect for a fast food chicken bowl? It's pretty good for 430 calories."
The second chicken bowl had very little rice, and more refried beans, lending itself to a Mrs. HM thought-bubble of, "Hmm...this is actually better than the first one. I like refried beans."
The third chicken bowl had LOTS of chicken, and very little refried beans, which made Mrs. HM giddy with such a discovery under the steamy lid. "Wow! That's a lot of chicken. The better for my protein needs."
In all instances, when I got my bowl home, I added some salsa on the side. Very few calories in salsa, but if you're watching your sodium, I can't recommend it, or the grilled chicken bowl itself. Though I'm sure you could make a lower-sodium version at home for your own self.
In fact, I have washed the bowls (there's a lot of my mom in me) to assure portion control, and plan to make my own during the week. With added diced onions!
Still, Hardees/Red Burrito needs to look into their chicken bowl assembly process. I figure Goldilocks would be the best trainer (you can't expect her to work for minimum wage) to make sure they get it JUST RIGHT.
I had one of these last weekend make that the one before, because he was gone to Sweden this past weekend), when Farmer H wanted me to bring him a taco salad. Of course I wanted a taco salad, but after an argument with myself in T-Hoe on the way there, I twisted my arm behind my back and agreed to make a wiser choice. So Grilled Chicken Bowl it was. And for only 430 calories! You can't beat that with a stick! Or with the tasty shell of a taco salad.
The chicken bowl comes in a plastic bowl (thus the name), and is more substantial than you might think. Starting from the bottom, it contains a layer of Spanish rice, a layer of refried beans, some chunks of grilled chicken, a sprinkling of shredded cheddar, a smattering of salsa, and a dollop of sour cream. Nom-nom!
I admit that I have sampled it three times now. The original taste, then after a long day at the casino with my favorite gambling aunt, and today, which was not planned, but will be discussed elsewhere. After three samples, it is evident that Hardees/Red Burrito needs to hire Goldilocks for quality control purposes.
The first chicken bowl had a lot of rice. In fact, it was mostly rice, but there was enough of the other stuff to make Mrs. HM say, "What do you expect for a fast food chicken bowl? It's pretty good for 430 calories."
The second chicken bowl had very little rice, and more refried beans, lending itself to a Mrs. HM thought-bubble of, "Hmm...this is actually better than the first one. I like refried beans."
The third chicken bowl had LOTS of chicken, and very little refried beans, which made Mrs. HM giddy with such a discovery under the steamy lid. "Wow! That's a lot of chicken. The better for my protein needs."
In all instances, when I got my bowl home, I added some salsa on the side. Very few calories in salsa, but if you're watching your sodium, I can't recommend it, or the grilled chicken bowl itself. Though I'm sure you could make a lower-sodium version at home for your own self.
In fact, I have washed the bowls (there's a lot of my mom in me) to assure portion control, and plan to make my own during the week. With added diced onions!
Still, Hardees/Red Burrito needs to look into their chicken bowl assembly process. I figure Goldilocks would be the best trainer (you can't expect her to work for minimum wage) to make sure they get it JUST RIGHT.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
I Am Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Hematoma
Remember Reader's Digest, and the features about Joe's assorted organs? I don't think his hematoma ever had a chance to speak. Or type.
This is why people on aspirin therapy shouldn't whack their hand on the raised countertop section next to the low countertop section where their New Delly sits in their dark basement lair. Sweet Gummi Mary! The light was even on, so I don't have that as an excuse. I was getting up from my rolly chair, and whacked the back of my hand on the corner of the countertop.
Let's just say that it's pretty apparent that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not in danger of a blood clot in the near future.
Oh, I'm sure there's a little bit of clotting to stem the flow of my life force out that damaged vein. But nothing like the unstoppable deluge that might have occurred, had I still been on the demon Xarelto. It kind of hurts, and will have a colorful bruise in a couple of days that will make the Devil's Handmaidens and The Devil's Playground look at me askance. But I'm not going to bleed to death from it.
Let the record show that it took four tries to get this picture, what with Jack popping his head into frame and then disappearing, leaving only his but like a Cheshire cat leaves its smile by the time the photo was snapped. Not to mention jumping up to jostle my hand.
I think I'll live, in spite of the waxy appearance of my digits, like I'm already on display at Madame Tussaud's. I blame the lotion I put on this afternoon.
This is why people on aspirin therapy shouldn't whack their hand on the raised countertop section next to the low countertop section where their New Delly sits in their dark basement lair. Sweet Gummi Mary! The light was even on, so I don't have that as an excuse. I was getting up from my rolly chair, and whacked the back of my hand on the corner of the countertop.
Let's just say that it's pretty apparent that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not in danger of a blood clot in the near future.
Oh, I'm sure there's a little bit of clotting to stem the flow of my life force out that damaged vein. But nothing like the unstoppable deluge that might have occurred, had I still been on the demon Xarelto. It kind of hurts, and will have a colorful bruise in a couple of days that will make the Devil's Handmaidens and The Devil's Playground look at me askance. But I'm not going to bleed to death from it.
Let the record show that it took four tries to get this picture, what with Jack popping his head into frame and then disappearing, leaving only his but like a Cheshire cat leaves its smile by the time the photo was snapped. Not to mention jumping up to jostle my hand.
I think I'll live, in spite of the waxy appearance of my digits, like I'm already on display at Madame Tussaud's. I blame the lotion I put on this afternoon.
Friday, November 4, 2016
Knick-Knack Paddywhack, Give A Pup A Pill...The Valedictorian Is A Genius Still
I'm pretty sure you never would have imagined this in a million years...but Mrs. Hillbilly Mom considers herself to be a bit of a genius. I know! Who would have thought that about a woman so modest and humble as Mrs. HM?
Because I'm kind of a genius, I knew there had to be a way to make Puppy Jack take his medicine that does not involve Puppy Jack eating everything I stuff it in, but still spitting out the pill. I've tried every food imaginable, soft and runny, meaty and firm (hope that doesn't get me any pr0n hits on my little anonymous blog), odorous and bland. EVERYTHING! Well...as much of everything I could, considering that this is only the fifth set of pills that Jack has ever taken. I think one is for heartworms, and one is for fleas and ticks. Don't hold me to that. I just take the boxes out of a shoebox with Jack's medical info and receipts from the vet. I write on the front what dates he gets his meds.
Yesterday, I decided to put Jack's pill inside an old hot dog. Sorry, Farmer H. Out of sight, out of mind, out of hot dogs! Jack is a small dog with a tiny mouth (though an extraordinarily long--and fast--tongue). I cut the ends off a hot dog, hollowed them out, trimmed a little cap of inner meat (I use that term loosely) to plug up the end when the pill was in. I cut the pill in half, and put a half in each hot dog end. See? It's so complicated that I have to tell you specifically.
Here's what it looks like:
Yum yum! Gotta give your doggy some! But make sure it goes to the right doggy! Therein lies Mrs. HM's genius. We usually have a problem with my Sweet, Sweet Juno stealing things given to Jacky. Toys, food, lava rocks he resorts to playing with because all of his toys are in her house...Sweet, Sweet Juno feels entitled to even Puppy Jack's pills. It was not such a problem when The Pony was here to dispense or hold back. But with only me, it's a problem.
Yesterday, I thought I could sneak out the kitchen door while Juno and Jack were waiting for me by the front door for their evening snack. Jack is nimble, Jack is quick, Jack can hear the back door click. He's always the first around there to greet me, his sturdy diggin' toenails clicking on the wooden porch deck.
I almost made it. Really. I snuck out, two hot dog ends stuffed with half-pills in my hand. I went down the steps while Jack jumped up and put his paws on my chest from the side porch. I started to give him a hot dog end, and HERE CAME JUNO! Jack's ears perked up, and he gobbled that hot dog end like there was no tomorrow! Like he knew Farmer H was coming back, and there would be no more hot dogs. I quickly slipped him the second one, and he ate that in one gulp. Therein lies the secret!
TO GET PUPPY JACK TO EAT HIS PILLS AND NOT SPIT THEM OUT, HAVE JUNO THERE READY TO EAT THEM IF HE DROPS ONE!
Yep! Jack was so dead set on not letting Juno get his medical treat that he didn't even fool around with biting into it and discarding the pill.
I did the same thing tonight, but Juno was more aggressive, so I had to toss her a chicken breast bone left over from lunch. That distraction worked. Jack gobbled two hot dog ends with their enclosed pill pieces while Juno was chewing.
I'm a genius. And my pup is medicated.
Because I'm kind of a genius, I knew there had to be a way to make Puppy Jack take his medicine that does not involve Puppy Jack eating everything I stuff it in, but still spitting out the pill. I've tried every food imaginable, soft and runny, meaty and firm (hope that doesn't get me any pr0n hits on my little anonymous blog), odorous and bland. EVERYTHING! Well...as much of everything I could, considering that this is only the fifth set of pills that Jack has ever taken. I think one is for heartworms, and one is for fleas and ticks. Don't hold me to that. I just take the boxes out of a shoebox with Jack's medical info and receipts from the vet. I write on the front what dates he gets his meds.
Yesterday, I decided to put Jack's pill inside an old hot dog. Sorry, Farmer H. Out of sight, out of mind, out of hot dogs! Jack is a small dog with a tiny mouth (though an extraordinarily long--and fast--tongue). I cut the ends off a hot dog, hollowed them out, trimmed a little cap of inner meat (I use that term loosely) to plug up the end when the pill was in. I cut the pill in half, and put a half in each hot dog end. See? It's so complicated that I have to tell you specifically.
Here's what it looks like:
Yum yum! Gotta give your doggy some! But make sure it goes to the right doggy! Therein lies Mrs. HM's genius. We usually have a problem with my Sweet, Sweet Juno stealing things given to Jacky. Toys, food, lava rocks he resorts to playing with because all of his toys are in her house...Sweet, Sweet Juno feels entitled to even Puppy Jack's pills. It was not such a problem when The Pony was here to dispense or hold back. But with only me, it's a problem.
Yesterday, I thought I could sneak out the kitchen door while Juno and Jack were waiting for me by the front door for their evening snack. Jack is nimble, Jack is quick, Jack can hear the back door click. He's always the first around there to greet me, his sturdy diggin' toenails clicking on the wooden porch deck.
I almost made it. Really. I snuck out, two hot dog ends stuffed with half-pills in my hand. I went down the steps while Jack jumped up and put his paws on my chest from the side porch. I started to give him a hot dog end, and HERE CAME JUNO! Jack's ears perked up, and he gobbled that hot dog end like there was no tomorrow! Like he knew Farmer H was coming back, and there would be no more hot dogs. I quickly slipped him the second one, and he ate that in one gulp. Therein lies the secret!
TO GET PUPPY JACK TO EAT HIS PILLS AND NOT SPIT THEM OUT, HAVE JUNO THERE READY TO EAT THEM IF HE DROPS ONE!
Yep! Jack was so dead set on not letting Juno get his medical treat that he didn't even fool around with biting into it and discarding the pill.
I did the same thing tonight, but Juno was more aggressive, so I had to toss her a chicken breast bone left over from lunch. That distraction worked. Jack gobbled two hot dog ends with their enclosed pill pieces while Juno was chewing.
I'm a genius. And my pup is medicated.
Thursday, November 3, 2016
It Was A Cop, My Fright, In A Black-And-White, Slowin' Down To Take A Look At Me
I went to town today at 11:00, and was home by noon. Since I fed the animals at 9:00 a.m. yesterday because I knew I'd be home late after my trip you-know-where with my favorite gambling aunt...I went straight over there to feed them when I got back. No need to make their rumbly tummies wait until evening.
While I was entering Farmer H's Shackytown, I heard a car up on the gravel road. I was in a white shirt, barely behind the tree line, and peered through the trunks to see a black-and-white police car (mostly black, with white writing on the side that said POLICE) on the way out of Hillmomba. It slowed way down when it got in front of our property. Then I figured the cop must have seen me walking, and was wondering what I was doing. Even though last time I checked, it's not against the law to feed your livestock at noon.
The police car actually stopped a minute, then went on. I was puzzled, because we are five miles outside the city limits. Police don't come out here. If you've got trouble, you have to call the county, and they'll send a deputy. Depending on the crime, you might also get some highway patrol officers. We haven't called the law since that time the first guy said he was going to shoot Farmer H, and it was a county deputy who showed up for his statement, and subsequently arrested that shooter-threatener when he told the deputy he would shoot HIM too! The point is that the law does not patrol our private landowners association property.
Then I wondered if somebody had stuff stolen. Still, the POLICE wouldn't be the ones to investigate. We have a guy who lives out here who works for another township's police department. But I don't think he drives his official car home. I was running all that through my mind as I fed the goat and mini pony, then forgot about it until I got to my dark basement lair and fired up New Delly.
There on the local online newspaper was a banner at the top, about a body found in an SUV following an arrest after a highway pursuit. The driver was arrested around 11:30, but a passenger had fled on foot. So I suppose that cop had been up in here looking for a fugitive, Hillmomba being less than 10 miles from the area of the crash, probably less as the crow flies or the perp walks.
Perhaps Mrs. Hillbilly Mom should move to a safer locale, like the edge of an active volcano.
While I was entering Farmer H's Shackytown, I heard a car up on the gravel road. I was in a white shirt, barely behind the tree line, and peered through the trunks to see a black-and-white police car (mostly black, with white writing on the side that said POLICE) on the way out of Hillmomba. It slowed way down when it got in front of our property. Then I figured the cop must have seen me walking, and was wondering what I was doing. Even though last time I checked, it's not against the law to feed your livestock at noon.
The police car actually stopped a minute, then went on. I was puzzled, because we are five miles outside the city limits. Police don't come out here. If you've got trouble, you have to call the county, and they'll send a deputy. Depending on the crime, you might also get some highway patrol officers. We haven't called the law since that time the first guy said he was going to shoot Farmer H, and it was a county deputy who showed up for his statement, and subsequently arrested that shooter-threatener when he told the deputy he would shoot HIM too! The point is that the law does not patrol our private landowners association property.
Then I wondered if somebody had stuff stolen. Still, the POLICE wouldn't be the ones to investigate. We have a guy who lives out here who works for another township's police department. But I don't think he drives his official car home. I was running all that through my mind as I fed the goat and mini pony, then forgot about it until I got to my dark basement lair and fired up New Delly.
There on the local online newspaper was a banner at the top, about a body found in an SUV following an arrest after a highway pursuit. The driver was arrested around 11:30, but a passenger had fled on foot. So I suppose that cop had been up in here looking for a fugitive, Hillmomba being less than 10 miles from the area of the crash, probably less as the crow flies or the perp walks.
Perhaps Mrs. Hillbilly Mom should move to a safer locale, like the edge of an active volcano.
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
Scenes From The Cash Struggle In Hillmomba
The #1 son sent me a text last night. I'm sure my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel will appreciate this exchange, since she enjoyed endured the #1 experience for four years.
"How open would you be to me flying to San Francisco and Portland over winter break?"
I resisted the urge to tell him that boy, would his arms be tired.
"I'll have to talk to Dad, mainly due to who's paying, and his upcoming 40% retirement, and the recent demise of your laptop. I suppose it could be your Christmas present."
"I'd be leaving right after the holidays, with a housemate and some other friends, who are going out there for a week. They've got super cheap flights, and are mostly staying with family and friends, so cheaper yet."
"What would you be doing? Besides being hipsters, of course."
"Most of them are seeing family, I think. I would probably hit up some friends from Solar Car out there."
"Would you rent a car, or how would you get around?"
"We're Millennials. We'd Uber, and take the train from SF to Portland."
"Don't some Uber drivers kill people? Or is that just a conspiracy theory?"
"Conspiracy theory. Have Ubered many a time."
"Yikes! The mom is the last to know! Is this going to be some LSD quest? Or MOLLY?"
"Psshhh, if I were gonna do molly it would've been at the dance festival we last went to! Molly is a dance drug, dontcha know. And of course I've Ubered! What did you expect me to do, drive drunk in KC?"
"It worked for my generation! And I don't mean MOLLY! Which I did NOT know was a dance drug, because I haven't danced since disco."
"Drunk driving? Such a bad influence!"
"I didn't say I was proud. I couldn't have been going more than 20 mph."
"My buddy says 'oh sh!t' lol"
"Because I did it, or because a narcoleptic turtle could have passed me?"
"Yes? I guess? lol"
"You'd better get to watching some Shameless on those DVDs I gave you last Christmas. Your buddy likes that show, and you're only on season two."
"I have been watching it! We'll probably watch one when we get home from the bar tonight."
"DRIVING?"
"No! I'm not you! We arranged a DD!"
"We'd never heard of such a thing back in my day! Until those busybody mothers went all against us!"
"You're really building your reputation tonight, aren't you? You're lucky I have no moral ground to stand on, what with the drink in front of me."
"My rep is stellar, and you know it! Though I DID shoot Jack with the BB gun to discourage him from chasing a chicken. It's like the wild west around here. Give me a shot of whiskey and the reins to the stagecoach and a Winchester...and I'll clean this place up!"
"Okay, Donald."
"That was not very nice."
"Who is Pa voting for?"
"I don't know. Hopefully, not Ross Perot again."
"Ugh. The dive bars in this town are terrible. Why couldn't you send me to a school in a real town?"
"Because I wanted to FEED your brain, not destroy it."
Can you believe that was the end of our discourse?
"How open would you be to me flying to San Francisco and Portland over winter break?"
I resisted the urge to tell him that boy, would his arms be tired.
"I'll have to talk to Dad, mainly due to who's paying, and his upcoming 40% retirement, and the recent demise of your laptop. I suppose it could be your Christmas present."
"I'd be leaving right after the holidays, with a housemate and some other friends, who are going out there for a week. They've got super cheap flights, and are mostly staying with family and friends, so cheaper yet."
"What would you be doing? Besides being hipsters, of course."
"Most of them are seeing family, I think. I would probably hit up some friends from Solar Car out there."
"Would you rent a car, or how would you get around?"
"We're Millennials. We'd Uber, and take the train from SF to Portland."
"Don't some Uber drivers kill people? Or is that just a conspiracy theory?"
"Conspiracy theory. Have Ubered many a time."
"Yikes! The mom is the last to know! Is this going to be some LSD quest? Or MOLLY?"
"Psshhh, if I were gonna do molly it would've been at the dance festival we last went to! Molly is a dance drug, dontcha know. And of course I've Ubered! What did you expect me to do, drive drunk in KC?"
"It worked for my generation! And I don't mean MOLLY! Which I did NOT know was a dance drug, because I haven't danced since disco."
"Drunk driving? Such a bad influence!"
"I didn't say I was proud. I couldn't have been going more than 20 mph."
"My buddy says 'oh sh!t' lol"
"Because I did it, or because a narcoleptic turtle could have passed me?"
"Yes? I guess? lol"
"You'd better get to watching some Shameless on those DVDs I gave you last Christmas. Your buddy likes that show, and you're only on season two."
"I have been watching it! We'll probably watch one when we get home from the bar tonight."
"DRIVING?"
"No! I'm not you! We arranged a DD!"
"We'd never heard of such a thing back in my day! Until those busybody mothers went all against us!"
"You're really building your reputation tonight, aren't you? You're lucky I have no moral ground to stand on, what with the drink in front of me."
"My rep is stellar, and you know it! Though I DID shoot Jack with the BB gun to discourage him from chasing a chicken. It's like the wild west around here. Give me a shot of whiskey and the reins to the stagecoach and a Winchester...and I'll clean this place up!"
"Okay, Donald."
"That was not very nice."
"Who is Pa voting for?"
"I don't know. Hopefully, not Ross Perot again."
"Ugh. The dive bars in this town are terrible. Why couldn't you send me to a school in a real town?"
"Because I wanted to FEED your brain, not destroy it."
Can you believe that was the end of our discourse?
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
Mouses To The Left Of Me, Mouses To The Right...Here I Am Stuck In The Middle With Jack
Looks like the Hillbilly Mansion is fast becoming the blog and homestead where wild animals go to die.
This evening, I stepped out on the porch to give Jack and Juno their evening snack, and saw special treats they had left for ME. Probably not Juno. Jack. Certainly not the cats. This group is too lazy to even get up and walk away when Jack humps them. Except for the one that hates him, and is worn down from growling 23 hours a day, and running for her life every time he is within sight. She would never have had time to kill two mice and deliver them to my door.
I tried to ignore the limp carcasses while snacking commenced. Then I went in to turn on the porch light, as the sun had already set. When I opened up the door and tried to get the first picture, Jack horned in. So I had to act like I was looking out in the yard so he would go to the steps and look that way. Then I took the picture:
Sorry that it turned out like one of Farmer H's photos, with a tiny subject in the center, and a lot of filler all around. That's as close as the zoom got me, and every time I leaned over to get closer, Jack ran and stuck his nose on the phone.
Here's Jack, eagerly awaiting a picture. Of himself, I'm pretty sure. You can just see the dead mouse behind his butt:
On the other side, the mouse was closer. I got this picture when Jack was distractedly humping his favorite feline with benefits:
When Jack heard the camera "snick" of a taken picture, he got off the cat to come stand expectantly at my feet. But the cat's eyes say it all:
"The horror."
It's times like this I wish Farmer H was home. He'd pick up those dead mice by the tail, and fling them into the yard. I'm afraid to touch them. The Black Plague may run up my arm. I might try sweeping them off tomorrow.
I'm pretty sure Jack will bring them right back.
This evening, I stepped out on the porch to give Jack and Juno their evening snack, and saw special treats they had left for ME. Probably not Juno. Jack. Certainly not the cats. This group is too lazy to even get up and walk away when Jack humps them. Except for the one that hates him, and is worn down from growling 23 hours a day, and running for her life every time he is within sight. She would never have had time to kill two mice and deliver them to my door.
I tried to ignore the limp carcasses while snacking commenced. Then I went in to turn on the porch light, as the sun had already set. When I opened up the door and tried to get the first picture, Jack horned in. So I had to act like I was looking out in the yard so he would go to the steps and look that way. Then I took the picture:
Here's Jack, eagerly awaiting a picture. Of himself, I'm pretty sure. You can just see the dead mouse behind his butt:
On the other side, the mouse was closer. I got this picture when Jack was distractedly humping his favorite feline with benefits:
When Jack heard the camera "snick" of a taken picture, he got off the cat to come stand expectantly at my feet. But the cat's eyes say it all:
"The horror."
It's times like this I wish Farmer H was home. He'd pick up those dead mice by the tail, and fling them into the yard. I'm afraid to touch them. The Black Plague may run up my arm. I might try sweeping them off tomorrow.
I'm pretty sure Jack will bring them right back.
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