Because of Ruckus's exuberant good spirits and arborial enthusiasms, we will need to curtail Christmas this year. So I've cut a teeny-tiny spruce tree that I hope I'll be able perch on top of a high shelf that he hasn't gotten around to scaling yet. Presently the teeny-tiny tree is sitting on the porch in a milk pail filled with snow. If I don't have to take the dog to the vet, I may find some time today to play with it. But unlike Ruckus, Anna is not glowing with health. I suspect a vestibular disorder, but maybe she's just got dog flu.
Pets. What a distraction. And I thought retiring from livestock would make my life emptier.