#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 40 - Creepy

I think my animals are messing with me.
My husband has been out of the country these past two weeks leaving me here to hold down the fort.
And history has shown that bad things always happen when he's gone.

I thought this trip's "bad thing" was going to be sick dogs, but while they had to miss a few days of daycare, they avoided catching what was going around.
Whew.
Bullet dodged.

Yeah, it's never that easy.
It started one evening last week when Floyd's attention was riveted to the baseboard under the TV cupboard. He not only stared, but paced back and forth as if moving along with something. Then Henry joined him, staring and pacing.

We had some mice in the house last fall and were able to eliminate them without too much trouble.
Or so I thought.
My daughter heard rustlings and gnawing sounds in the closet ceiling off the upstairs bathroom a couple of months ago, but no more mice showed up and I figured it was a fluke; either that or another bat infestation.
Either way, there wasn't anything we could really do about it unless the suspects appeared, which they hadn't.

Now my baseboard-staring cats were creeping me out.
Henry moved to the next room, his icy gaze focused on a different wall.
Then Bertie, our ferocious hunting basset hound, with baby birds, bunnies, and almost a squirrel to her credit, leaped to attention. Her nose instantly to the floor, she made her way over to the same area, staring and whining.

We couldn't hear anything in the walls nor did we find any outward signs of mice.
All we could do was, like the cats, wait and watch.
My creeped-out factor rising, I knew better than to ignore this hunting behavior.

You see, Henry and Floyd have a hunting conquest of their own.
Late one summer night last year, also when my husband was traveling by the way, I heard what sounded like a really big bug buzzing in my room. But it was dark and I didn't want to wake up the dogs so I pulled the covers over my head and fell back to sleep.
In the wee hours of the morning the next day my daughter woke me up. "Mom, there's a bat in my room."
Henry and Floyd had cornered what was likely a little brown bat - which, believe me, doesn't seem so little when it's trapped behind your bedroom door. I value bats and think they are fascinating creatures, but I would just as soon avoid any up-close-and-personal encounters.
I was ready to tell my daughter to open her window screen, grab the cats, shut her bedroom door, and climb in bed with me, when my son, who happened to still be awake and was in a good mood, offered to catch and release. Turns out, my daughter had heard a weird buzzing, too. That little bat had apparently spent more than a day in the house, likely roosting in her curtains.

So you see, my paranoia is not totally unfounded.
Then last night, Fern, our mighty indoor huntress, with chipmunks and large spiders, and unfortunately a gerbil or two to her credit, jumped down off the bed and started chattering. You know, the kind of chattering a cat will do when stalking a bird, or a mouse, or pretty much any prey. She was poised in crouch position staring under my bed.
Gulp.

I have learned not to ignore Fern's hunting signs.
Years ago I lay in bed in the early morning listening to Fern race back and forth under the bed. I didn't think much of it, though she sure kept running back and forth, back and forth, for a really long time. I assumed she was probably just playing with a toy or something on the floor.
Did I say it was early in the morning?

Then I got up.
Lying in a bedraggled heap by the door was tiny little Jasmine, my youngest daughter's gerbil. Fern had apparently run the poor thing to death underneath my bed while I lay above listening to the slaughter.

So it didn't take me long to put two and two together this time - she had something trapped under my bed! I frantically called my daughter, who indulgently shone a flashlight under the bed to reveal... nothing.
Nothing we could see, that is.

So today I'm trying really hard not to read too much into my animals' suspicious behavior. The dogs are at daycare and I'm home alone. Just me and the cats.
At least, I hope so.

#100HAPPYDAYS - Days 36, 37, 38, 39

Day 36 

Fern and I are just going to snuggle under the blankets and weather the storm .

 Day 37 

Unlike Templeton Rye, Henry really was made in Iowa.

Day 38

I have this crazy cactus that blooms multiple times a year - as in 4 or even 5 different times. I must give it just the right about of neglect!

Day 39

Knitting under a sweater blanket (made by my daughter Sarah) and my big, goofy lap dog.

#100HAPPY DAYS - Day 35 - Danseur

Gus is very proud of his French heritage.
After all, "basset" is derived from the French "bas," meaning low to the ground.
Among his many talents, Gus is most proud of his status as a danseur.
His long, lean body exemplifies the male ballet dancer's physique with its need for strength and agility.
Here Gus demonstrates perfect form in first position.

You're welcome.

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 30 - Winter Weary

Gus doesn't know about anybody else but he's tired of winter.
If it were up to him these frigid winter days would be spent lounging by a warm fire, only occasionally turning over to toast the other side.
Gus would be all in favor of spending the winter in hibernation, as long as there was a nice warm bed and a goodly supply of milk bones.
But alas, the life of a house dog comes with its obligations.
Despite his assurances to the contrary, he cannot wait until Spring to piddle.
Since he was a tiny puppy Gus has hated cold weather; and he strives to make it clear how much he resents our insistence on taking him into a deep freeze to piddle.
To this end, Gus has perfected the art of false piddling.
He will unwillingly trudge outside only to go through the piddle protocol;  a slight bending of the back legs along with the lifting of one heel. Then he'll dash to the door and certain warmth.
Only it was just a ruse.
This means he can't just be let outside to go potty like a normal dog.
No, Gus must be closely monitored to ensure he actually goes.
Of course his tendency to false piddle makes pottying take twice as long, forcing not only Gus but his people to suffer in below zero wind chills.
I guess this reasoning is a little too nuanced for the basset brain.
Or maybe he knows exactly what he's doing.

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 29 - Cozy

Cozy throw knitted from hand spun wool

With temperatures right around 0 degrees and wind chills as low as -20, today was the perfect day to cozy up under a wool throw.
I knitted this throw last year from wool yarn spun by Maggie Howe of Girl With a Sword Productions. Over the years I think I have bought enough of her hand spun to reconstruct an entire flock of sheep - maybe two.
Apparently I'm working on building my own herd of afghans instead.

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 28 Bookish

My cousin is paring down her possessions and sent me this wonderful old book, full of sage advice on health and home, with topics such as keeping one's figure, home remedies for worms(!) and contagious diseases, social etiquette, and how to clean lace.
I can't help but ponder the many hands that have turned these pages and the thoughts and actions this book may have inspired.
It must have been precious to many people to have survived more than 100 years.
Without intention, I found my niche as a "homemaker," though when my youngest heads off to college in the fall I think I'm going to call myself a retired educational facilitator instead.
I shouldn't be embarrassed or discomfited by my love for things domestic, yet society still tends to devalue the import of homemaking.
It sounds kind of silly to admit how much satisfaction I find in making my own bread, putting together a delicious meal, or surveying the jars of homemade pasta sauces on my shelves.
Today I'll peruse this old, timeworn book and feel a kinship with other women from long ago; and be thankful that I don't need to know how to treat diphtheria or destroy lice on cattle.
Though I may take a look at how to remove wrinkles...

#100HAPPYDAYS - Day 27 - Soothing

I ordered a knitting kit a few weeks ago - project number 5,203 - and when I opened it today this nifty little can of bag balm was included as a "soothing" gift.
And it arrived just in time.

I'm not a glamorous (snort) woman. I rarely wear makeup, don't "do" my nails, and am most comfortable in jeans and a baggy sweater. When my kids were little I would often notice other women's perfectly coiffed hair and neatly manicured nails and think, "Someday I'll have the time to do that, too."
I guess I now have that time, but just am not interested.
I do "style" my short hair and decided a couple years ago to cover the gray, but makeup and manicures apparently just aren't my thing.
It's not that I don't spend time on myself - I exercise regularly, eat well much of the time, and practice mindfulness (almost) daily.
I just don't want to mess with eye liner and mascara, and nail polish never would stick to my nails.

It seems I'm always cooking or outside with the dogs or just coming in from running errands - and therefore washing my hands a lot. I'm kind of a sticker about hand washing and it tends to be the first thing I do when I walk in the door.
As the saying goes, too much of a good thing... leads to dry, chapped skin... or something like that.

A friend once told me the first thing he noticed when meeting his future wife was her soft hands. I was thinking about this while slathering on the bag balm today, which meant I was thinking about it for a really long time; apparently lanolin takes forever to fully absorb.
If my husband weren't in Chile I'd ask him what he first noticed about me.
I'd bet you my bag balm it wasn't soft hands.