The litter from which we will choose a new Springer Spaniel pup was born yesterday. Very exciting!
Although first choice is a female, it's now looking possible we might pick out a special male.
We chose Grace for the name, but Mary pointed out this morning that it wouldn't fit for a boy.
Agreeing with her, I have locked myself in the Havana Lounge (recognized by most of my friends as a dingy corner of the basement which requires a trail of bread crumbs to follow when it's time to go back upstairs - but it has a window and I can drink wine and smoke cigars to my heart's content without disturbing anyone or stinking up the good part of the house). I indulge in some of my most intelligent thinking down here.
Today in the lounge, Sunday afternoon weather blustering heartily outside, I have been listening to the Rolling Stones and figuring out possible names for a male pup.
I think I've thought of a perfect one!
PUSSY CAT
What do you think?

Here's a first of the year.
Mary captured Boomer and me sitting at our lakeside bar, Boomer chewing a rawhide bone and me working on a sunny Friday afternoon glass of Merlot and a Cuban Monte Cristo.
The temperature was 50 F - almost unheard of around here in mid - February.

Saturday evening at camp. Baby, it's cold outside.
 
Quite a difference from last Saturday in Cuba.
 
As Mary and I waited for the airport bus at the end of our very pleasant week one of our new friends sauntered by. She and her husband were at the resort for two weeks and we had gotten to know them fairly well - matter of fact, we had spent quite a bit of time together and loved every minute.
 
"Pat, would you take a picture of Mary and me?" I called out.
 
"Sure," she answered, reaching for my camera. "This is a sad day."
 
I was happy to be wearing sunglasses to cover the good-bye tears, leaking out, despite my best effort to squash the emotions that rise when somebody is about to say nice things.
 
"It's a sad day. This means my holiday is half gone," she concluded, clicking the shutter.

The chickadee gets my vote for the most industrious critter at camp.
 
This afternoon I was treated to a rare experience - a single chickadee at the feeder for more than three hours.
 
Usually numerous chicks are flitting in and out. With the single one today I was able to observe a routine.
 
A cycle, repeated over and over, lasted about a minute.
 
Mr Chickadee stood aside on a tree branch, scoping out the seeds, then dropped over to select one. I don't know how the selection was determined, but after mouthing a few the chickadee flew with one to a nearby tree, pinned the seed between his wirey toes and the tree branch and proceeded to peck the hell out of the shell until it was shredded and tossed away.
 
Then the bird, clutching the inner seed, disappeared into the thick forest of spruce, pine, and balsam.
 
I believe the little character stashed the fruit out of my sight, and then flew back to resume his life's calling, the endless challenge to survive and make a good life.
 
Chickadees are inspiring.