My Big White Dog is sitting beside me, affecting to be unperturbed by the fact that we’re all out of rawhide pencils until Tuesday. But I know her and she KNOWS morning is NOT the time for rawhide “slabs” or whatever you would call them. “Seriously, Martha. Don’t you know what time it is?”
These things matter to a livestock guardian dog.
She REALLY likes taking these outside and burying them. She also likes using them to play keep-away with Teddy. The yard is littered with rawhide which I often pick up (if it’s clean enough) and put back in the bag… Seriously, what OTHER advantage is there in having opposable thumbs?
Other than the prediction that it will freeze tonight and tomorrow, there seems to be nothing too harrowing on the horizon (but who ever knows?) Which reminds me that some readers have asked about the beans.
We’ve had several hot days in a row so the beans are doing well. But here’s a fable for our time.
During the snow storm almost three weeks ago now, one of the larger pods got knocked to the ground. I found it and thought, “Well, there are bound to be casualties.” I left it. A few days ago I noticed it had turned yellow which is what these pods do when the beans are ripe. I thought that was pretty amazing. I’d figured the pod would slowly rot and melt into the ground. I picked it up and found it was completely dry. Huh? I opened it and inside were two very large, very viable beans and one rotten one.
Otherwise, I have already harvested a few ripe pods. The beans are larger than the beans from two years ago. I won’t know until next year if that is a good thing or not, but here they are.
I will probably cover them tonight and tomorrow. Much as I love winter, I’m loath to let my beans surrender.
Because the fabled bean pod dropped from Tu Fu, I’ll share one of his poems.
Autumn Thoughs, I
Jade frost bites the maple trees
and Wu Mountain and Wu Gorge breathe out dark fear
as river waves rise up to the sky
and dark wind-clouds touch ground by a frontier fortress.
The chrysanthemums have twice bloomed tears of other days,
When I moor my lonely boat my heart longs for my old garden.
The need for winter clothes hurries scissors and bamboo rulers.
White Emperor City looms over the rushed sound of clothes beaten at dusk.
Featured image: “Are you going to take MY picture, Martha?”
“I will, little guy. Look at me.”