Edith's great escape

Our story begins early Sunday morning. I had just let Smooch outside and 

was looking out the window at the barn, taking attendance while brushing my teeth. 

"Shhttt," I said, through a mouthful of toothpaste.

Edith had flown the coop and was running amok with the equines.

I dropped my toothbrush and headed outside to rescue her.
The camera was right by the door and jumped into my hand.

I will spare you the stickfigure drawing – you'll just have to imagine the pictures below

being taken by a bed-headed, bleary-eyed lunatic wearing nothing but 

a t-shirt, underwear and flip-flops. I'll apologize now if you can't unsee that.

Edith and Lady Mary were running back and forth along the fence on opposite sides.

Alan was shielding his eyes. I hope he isn't scarred for life.

Edith stared at her destination; Lucy stared at me.

Poor Edith couldn't figure out how to get out of the corral.

Me: Fyy, Eth, fyy!

She couldn't understand me through the mouthful of toothpaste, and why I didn't just spit it out, Lord only knows.

It seemed so unladylike ... said the half-naked picture-taking lunatic herding a chicken.

Lucy, George and Alan conferred and decided it was more fun to watch the drama unfold

than to do harm to Edith.

George and Lucy laughed watched while Edith tried to squeeze through the fence.

Why she didn't fly back over the way she came remains a mystery. She had lost her head at this point.

She ran southward through the corral and I followed along, 

trying to turn her back before she reached the road.

She finally made a u turn behind the barn, and I was able to herd her through a stall and back to her yard.

Edith: Would you please go put some clothes on now?

Sunday leftovers

A collection of images left in the camera from the previous week. 

Johnny's hunting face...

and his prey du jour ... the grasshopper. Albuquerque has been plagued with grasshoppers recently, 

so much so that grasshopper swarms have shown up on the weather radar, 

but we've only had a few down here. Johnny and the chickens compete for them.

Maybe Johnny thinks they're easier to catch from up high?

Is Lucy trying to kiss George or bite off his nose?

I'll leave you with the sweetest sound of the week:

Saturday encore ~ Alan's life of crime

It seems very odd to not be whining about lost, ripped or otherwise missing fly masks this year.

The roll-on fly repellent is still doing the trick to keep the pesky bugs away from the eyes of George, 

Alan, and Lucy. Hank? Not so much. He doesn't have much hair around his eyes for the repellent to stick to 

so he's wearing a fly mask now, but no one would dare rip it off his face. Anyway, this post is from June 2013. 

 ***

Me: Lucy, you seem to be having a wardrobe malfunction.

Lucy: Alan did it.

Me: That goes without saying.

Me: What was the last thing I said to you this morning, George?

George: Don't come home without your fly mask.

Me: You didn't listen to me, did you?

George: Oh, I listened alright. I listened as Mr. Velcro Ripper stole it right off my face.

Me: That's exactly where you belong, Alan – behind bars.

Still good to the last drop

Pictured above are Eugenia and Clara in 2012, obsessed with the raindrops falling from the downspout.

Pictured below is Edith, obsessed with the same thing. Since Eugenia and Clara are no longer with us, 

I can only assume this is an innate and not a learned behavior among desert-dwelling chickens.

There's a technique to catching a raindrop from the spout.

First, one has to stare at the stream to gauge the proper timing.

Then the head is turned perpendicular in order to snatch a drop out of the air.

 Finally, the head is tilted back to swallow, allowing the next chicken in line to take a turn.

Chickens are much smarter than I give them credit for.

Alan powders his nose

 There is gypsum deposit right behind the barn that is tailor-made for donkey dirt baths.

Alan, George and Lucy roll in it daily, luxuriating in its insect-repelling properties. 

 Sometimes Alan will retreat to the area to freshen up...

 ...and powder his nose.

 Maybe it prevents the bugs from flying up his nostrils.

His fashion trend is catching on.

Put a lid on it

Smooch: Roof! Roof!

I've been driving around topless ever since I got the Ranger. What a knucklehead.

I've finally pimped my ride and bought an anti-sun roof.
File this under "things I wished I'd done a long time ago."

Gone are the days of climbing onto the sun-baked seat after a hot afternoon of kicking cactus
and burning the backs of my legs.

Of course, it's probably just a matter of time
until Alan or George figures out how to take the top down.

George gets Johnny out of the picture

 Johnny has been complaining very loudly about the poultry prevention plank that's blocking 

one of his entry points to the front yard. Or maybe he was just yawning. 

Regardless, George moved into the picture to help Johnny prove his point.

Beware the vine

There's a vine at the entrance to my garden that's threatening a takeover.

Yesterday I tried to redirect it up and around the arbor before it strangles any unsuspecting visitors.

When I posted about this vine a few years ago, you all helped me identify it as Silver Lace. 

It thrives on neglect and can grow about 12 feet per year.

See what I mean? My guard at the gate no longer intimidates anyone. 

I didn't know Johnny and the vine were friends. When I saw him resting beneath it,

I assumed he liked the shade, but it's actually a prime spot for hunting lizards.

They crawl out of the rocks, Johnny grabs a snack, then goes right back to his shady spot.

Maximum efficiency, minimum effort.

Johnny's butt is leaning against ground zero. The once-tiny vine stem is now a tree trunk.

I warned Johnny if he didn't move soon, the vine would likely twist around his tail

and he'd never chase another lizard.

He believed me.

Sunday leftovers

A collection of the images left in the camera from the previous week: 

Just before Justina and Don relocated Morning Bray Farm to Virginia,
they gave me a cutting from Spike, their mutant aloe vera plant.
Six months later, Son of Spike lives on. He and Smooch both enjoy the morning sun.

I was out in the back 40 and noticed a tiny calf in the bar ditch that runs along south side of the ranch.

I thought he was dead, but he stood up when I got within a few yards of him. 

Part of his umbilical cord was hanging down, so I'm guessing he was pretty fresh.

His mom quickly escorted him away from the prying papparazzi.

Random shot of Hank grazing in the meadow.
I never had a meadow until this year – another legacy of the September rains.

The morning routine goes like this:

1. Let Smooch out the back door.

2. Verify that JohnnyCashCat is waiting for me at the front door. I love it that he's so predictable.

Most of the yucca blossoms have turned to fruit, and most of the fruit is being nibbled on 

by New Mexico's state insect – the tarantula hawk wasp. This is how we keep the tourists away.

I need to keep making these animated .gifs so that I don't forget how. I hope you don't mind.