Poor Micah. The redheaded stepchild living in the glare of the Golden Child, Dax.
He turned 1 on January 27th. There was no celebration, no birthday burger, no ice cream, nothing. I was in week 2 of a full time semester of business classes at Columbus State University and I was struggling mightily. I negotiated a postponement on the party.
And this was the Big Party over a month later.
Hours slaving in the evenings in the workshop to scavenge from a go cart to add to my creation.
Dax loves it, without brakes we'd be in Albuquerque by now. Micah would like to return his gift. Nonplussed.
(For licensing and usage contact: licensing@viralhog.com)
Somehow I will find a way to convince Micah that this is FUN. Besides, I'm not supposed to be biking until mid summer on my foot with screws and plate, so I need Puppy Power. We shall prevail. Stay tuned.
Seeing as I won't be going back to my colorist anytime soon, I opted NOT to let my gray hair grow out naturally. My university ID will be the last vestige of my bottled youthful hair.
This woman is brave...
I can't do the silver back gorilla look for a year. Not that kind of brave. First, predawn attack on the brown dye job:
My mother mistakenly takes this color as the final product. "You look like Trump", she tells me. Ahhh, a mother's love. Dyed my entire head grey.
There. Going to be saving a lot of money here on out.
It all started a couple of weeks ago: the hoarding.
Watching Italy shutter its country ramped up my desire to stock up 2 months supply of all critter food.
With supply lines worldwide damaged, I'm guessing production of Garrett's prescription dog food may be limited in the near future. Rather safe than sorry.
Stocked up on all veterinary prescriptions too. I was all done before the madness hit last Friday. Maybe I should've thought of toilet paper. But, I was busy thinking of my furkids.
I never talk about her. She toils tirelessly. She's 17 years old and has 277,000 miles. She's my company vehicle. In the past, someone shot her.
In the past, someone used the tailgate as a guide to hook to a trailer.
In recent three years, I'd taken a democratic approach and left her to be used by anyone working on the farm who needed her.
Until a former employee tried to rip her rear end out. I quickly retook possession of communal keys. Funny how she hasn't needed to go to the mechanic's shop as often...hmmm. Meet Boo.
Never had a vehicle lent to me for work before, some have tried to tell me she's ugly, but I love her. Mondays are now my days off to study, but it was too pretty outside and Boo was still under a coat of mud from the monsoons.
Shampooed seats, scrubbed her behind the ears, went through half a bottle of Armor-All on all her trim and waxed over all the dents and scratches. Boo-tiful!
All of us in Alabama are hoping the monsoons are behind us.
Droughts of last Summer that killed so many trees were chased by rainfall measured in feet. One day, we're cutting dead pines from the drought, another day, cutting uprooted oaks from the saturated grounds. A bipolar Mother Nature isn't a pretty picture.
The horses have gone through 80 bales more of shavings this month than the last because they've been kept up for their own good. That's a lot of mucking. And dispensing hay. And refilling water buckets.
And glamping in the barn office when the horses are in their stalls overnight.
Apples and sugar peas are favored snacks around here. We share.
To live without a dog is unthinkable. I'd shrivel up and die.
