 |  |
Hobo's tail feathers are sprouting like mung bean seeds (ah, remember the days when we were all going to be living a full life of self sufficiency on a tiny piece of land, raising chickens, rabbits, and a goat, and eating sprouts grown in a mason jar... ha, ha, another story).
Judging by the rapid growth of his tail feathers, I'd say ol' Hobo must have very recently donated his tail to a predator when I first saw him last weekend.
All summer I have been on the lookout for Romeo, the cat that snuck into the cabin and hid out under my bed, in the spring. I think if he were still around I'd have spotted him a time or two. I haven't, but I have wondered once in awhile about him, and I have wondered why mice are so scarce this summer.
Last weekend, as I sat on the deck meditating with a glass of wine, I thought I heard a cat. I listened for quite a while after that, but didn't hear any more. Eventually I decided that what sounded like "meow" was more likely my empty glass whispering "more" and I did what I had to do. It's a miserable experience to hear the pitiful cries from an empty glass, and as evening turned to night I forgot about Romeo.
Last night Mary and I enjoyed another beautiful Friday evening sunset from our deck at camp, surrounded by Hobo and a dozen of his comrades busily tucking sunflower seeds into winter stashes in the nearby trees.
The picture on the left is Hobo last weekend. On the right, Hobo shows a new growth of feathers that must measure about an inch long that have come in during the week. I'm told that sometimes a second planting of tail feathers will be all white. I'll be watching with special interest. If the tail doesn't grow in white I probably won't be able to pick Hobo out of the crowd by the time Daylight Saving Time ends next weekend.
Judging by the rapid growth of his tail feathers, I'd say ol' Hobo must have very recently donated his tail to a predator when I first saw him last weekend.
All summer I have been on the lookout for Romeo, the cat that snuck into the cabin and hid out under my bed, in the spring. I think if he were still around I'd have spotted him a time or two. I haven't, but I have wondered once in awhile about him, and I have wondered why mice are so scarce this summer.
Last weekend, as I sat on the deck meditating with a glass of wine, I thought I heard a cat. I listened for quite a while after that, but didn't hear any more. Eventually I decided that what sounded like "meow" was more likely my empty glass whispering "more" and I did what I had to do. It's a miserable experience to hear the pitiful cries from an empty glass, and as evening turned to night I forgot about Romeo.
Last night Mary and I enjoyed another beautiful Friday evening sunset from our deck at camp, surrounded by Hobo and a dozen of his comrades busily tucking sunflower seeds into winter stashes in the nearby trees.
The picture on the left is Hobo last weekend. On the right, Hobo shows a new growth of feathers that must measure about an inch long that have come in during the week. I'm told that sometimes a second planting of tail feathers will be all white. I'll be watching with special interest. If the tail doesn't grow in white I probably won't be able to pick Hobo out of the crowd by the time Daylight Saving Time ends next weekend.
