it isn’t always clear who is on which rung of evolution’s ladder
Lady bugs by the dozens litter the veranda and I have to step over their carcasses or endure the crunch of tiny epitaphs. Perhaps there’s some warm migration or mating mission of which I’m unaware,else October’s innocent of their undoing.
I want to take a few gone-stale mixed nuts to the chipmunk who lives in the rockery and bounces home proudly to his family. Oh what a marvellous hunter you are, father. If it’s not crackers or bread crusts, we feast on delicious detritus of mix nuts.
You’d think other animalia of the estate would want a cut of the stale proceeds and do a little feeding-time surveillance. Seems not, although I do put the spoils under a wicker chair, out of rain’s harm, and still suspect the Jays of petty larceny.
Grocery pick-up is on the grab and go, except for when Mr decides to bark at me. At me! There—in my wicker chair, not his. Sitting and not fetching them foodstuffs. The ounce of him! So up and off I toddle to Pavlov’s pantry.
