|It's hard work being happy.|
I, of course, spent it inside despite the legions of Bermtopians out doing yard work. I know, from experience and in my soul, to wait a week or so till there's less moisture in the garden and the lawn has firmed up.
I just concentrated on dusting and flailing at cobwebs.
Nothing like a couple sunny days to point out your Achilles heel of housekeeping.
Ben, on the other hand, spent the day in his backyard. He chased off a few cats who sauntered across the Back Forty in search of songbirds, emboldened by Ben's absence during the winter months. He dozed in the late March sun, snapped at bugs and rolled like a maniac in the sad, winter-fried grass. He ate something, god-knows-what-but-probably-cat-poop, he found in the north flower bed. And he tried to dig a hole. Arggh!
A firm rap of the knuckle against the kitchen window took care of that nonsense.
|Whaaa-aaat? I'm innocent.|
And in the sky, the goldfinches were joined by a red-headed house finch for the first time yesterday.
Ben isn't the only happy one in Bermtopia.
|I think we made it.|
7:10 a.m. Monday