The Accountant's Garden

Scheduled non-accounting weeks: April 10-14, 2017 June 12-16, 2017 July 24-28, 2017

Monday, September 06, 2004

Labor Day has already swept past us, and this year's summer seems like it has gone by the fastest of any that I remember. Even as a child, when the return to school crept up so quickly, this passing summer does not compete. And it's been a difficult summer. With the sale of our house, we are now drifters until our new home is ready...possibly in mid-December.

It's been hard to post to my blog. I haven't spent any time gardening, with the exception of one small tomato plant that I purchased in late June that hasn't grown any taller than 18 inches! I haven't spent much time cooking either, despite the fact that we are house-sitting in a house with the most gourmet kitchen I've ever been in. It just isn't the same without your favorite pot and spatula, and you feel lost without the well-used baking sheets and bread pans.

The cats, too, have had their share of unpleasant activities. They have gotten to move into their new digs, to the joy of Happy and the despair of Mr. Slinky. Happy now owns the Estates house, while Mr. Slinky has been disgraced into occupying the lowest level of the house because of problems with the resident male cat, Morris, and a band of imposing raccoons.

Tonight, however, Mr. Slinky earned back his self-respect as a cat.

During a backyard barbeque, a family member brought along her dog, an aging Basset Hound. Now, this dog is accustomed to visiting the Estates house, the resident cat running away, and an unguarded cat food bowl. Well, tonight, after polishing off the cat food on the main level, he decided to investigate the smell of cat food from the lower level of the house (Basset Hounds have an incredible sense of smell). Remember who lives downstairs - and picture this. The clickety-clack of dog toenails tromping down hardwood stairs. Then a brief silence. And howl-howl-howl; the sound of a terrified dog and the very fast clickety-clack of dog toenails up the stairs. A few seconds later, the terrified hound was followed by what appeared to be a tornado of black fur, which then stopped and swatted at the yelping hound. Around and around the kitchen they ran, until a sympathic soul stepped in and removed the swirling black mass of fur and claws.

And Poirot the Basset Hound will never again venture down the stairs at Estates.

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