May days......

Didn't we just turn the calendar page over to April?  Now we're in May already..... How did that happen?

And in this merry month of May, I've learned never to say never.  As in cutting the grass. "I will not, will not, will not cut this grass."  Oh well. Famous last words. I indeed have cut the grass. Not only that, but we've been looking around for a riding mower. One that I can use as easily as my husband. So much for "I will not cut this grass."   Those riding mowers seem to come in green, black, or yellow and green.  They should offer more color choices.  Silver-blue would be very pretty...... and can you imagine a bright purple?  ("When I am an older woman, I shall drive a purple mower.....")

The flowerbeds continue to look beautiful...... the gardenia  bush is blooming, the petunias are multiplying, the purple and pink flowers (I forgot their names) are doing well and growing taller. The 'sweet broom' bush is blooming yellow and gorgeous, the roses continue to burst with new blooms, the azaleas are getting larger....... amazing what daily watering can do for plants. Not to mention that we don't have a flock of chickens scratching up everything all day long.

Mickey Kitty has been given his freedom.... he's out of his coop-turned-screen-porch during the day, and he spends his time walking around the yard and exploring every inch of the property around the house, the cottage and the barn.  He hasn't gone across the road or down near the pond......... he seems to be content right up here.  At night before dark, I call him and he comes up to the porch and I carry him to the coop for the night.  I don't want him roaming around after dark..... he doesn't have as much street-smarts as Gatsby and Mickey is no match for night-time critters, especially coyotes.

Speaking of Gatsby..... we nearly brought him to the shelter one day last week.  Gatsby decided he didn't want to be sharing his outside kingdom with Mickey, and he plowed himself into Mickey one afternoon, scratching and howling and carrying on something dreadful.  Gentleman Gatsby turned into a blasting bully, and we just couldn't believe it. The last thing we wanted here was a bully of a cat.  The next day, we decided that Gatsby would find a new home..... we would bring him to the shelter. (It seemed to be an easy decision: we've had Mickey since he was a tiny kitten; Gatsby was a stray that we found the year after moving here.)

I got the large cat-carrier from the garage, scooped Gatsby up from his sleeping spot in the flowerbed, and put him into the crate.  My husband carried the crate to the car, sat in the back with Gatsby, and I drove towards town and the shelter.  On the way, all we heard from Gatsby were questioning meows..... each meow seeming to end with a question mark.  I heard my husband talking to Gatsby, telling him everything would be fine.... he'd find a home where he was the only cat.......    And from Gatsby, one word:  "Meow?"   "Meow?"   (Translation:  "What did I do?"  or possibly "Have you people lost your minds?")

From the back seat, I heard my husband saying "This isn't right. This just is not right."  I pulled over to the side of the road...... I asked my husband if he wanted me to turn around.  "Yes. No one is going to want this old gray-haired cat if we bring him to the shelter."  I made a U-turn and headed back towards home.  All the way back to the house, Gatsby didn't make a sound. Not even one little "Meow?"

When we got to our driveway, my husband opened up the crate and let Gatsby outside.  Gatsby looked around the driveway, realized he was right back where he started from, and within half an hour, he was once again sleeping in the flowerbed on the new mulch.  Since then, Gatsby has made amends with Mickey.... no fighting, no howling, no territorial terrors. They are, as my soon-to-be 100-yr-old Aunt Dolly would say, "Playing nice."

If only the rest of the world could do the same.  I don't like listening to the news anymore, I swear. We are sharing this one planet, people. Play nice, damn it, play nice!  (My NY cousins tell me that we're living in a 1950s bubble up here in the Hill Country. Yes, we are. And we like it that way.)