The Return of King Arthur
Work: day off, for Mondayesque reasons. Chance of late afternoon/evening rally.
Ramblings for the Day: Sometimes decisions get taken out of your hands. As I’ve said elsewhere, one of us sits with Mathilda while she finishes her meal. There are more efficient arrangements, but it’s not unpleasant to sit on a stool in the field, watch the horses, and fuss with Rodney while he waits to clean up her leftovers. During the time Rodney eats, not much happens. Narratively, I was all poised to ponder the value of entertaining myself with a book/crossword puzzle versus the gentler joys of being in the moment: listening to the happy chop of horse jaws, admiring the trees, following the squirrels as they race from tree to tree. However, before I could determine if this constituted boredom or enlightenment, one of our cats decided for me.
His full name is Arthur, King of the Kittens, pronounced with the ringing emphasis of Arthur, King of the Britons, from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. If Arthur could arrange for trumpeters, he would. Last month, I blamed the perky new dog for keeping the cats, particularly Arthur, away from the pasture during morning feed [Barn Dogs]. Since then, Arthur has decided that I could not possibly go on without my daily dose of cat adoration.
Therefore, while I wait, I once again have a lap full of cat. At least until Rodney finishes. At which point, my lap airspace is full of horse snoot. Arthur retreats under the stool but stays within adoration range. One hand to pat the cat. One hand to pat the horse. Two dogs circling in close orbit. Quite the peaceable kingdom.
How does your barn menagerie get along?