The rut is upon us. Lovesick elk are crowding our front yard. A few minutes ago, I was lying on the couch, my feet up, reading my Kindle. Pat was sitting by an open window, also reading her Kindle. Suddenly, the room exploded with sound. A bull elk, overcome by his hormones, bugled practically in Pats ear. She let out a screech that caused the glasses in the hutch to tinkle. A diet Pepsi, which was sustaining her at the time, bounced off the ceiling. Bailey, asleep, shot straight up and did her own bugle. Fearing the apocalypse was near, she sought refuge on my stomach. My diet Pepsi also went flying. The bull bugled again. Pat uttered those words that always remind me that she has black Irish blood. I yelled for towels. Pat, not at her gracious best, told me to get my own damn towels. What a mess. Bailey is now in the closet and will not come out.
Posted on: Fri, 19 Sep 2014 01:09:24 +0000
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