Waiting for the Bus

 We live in Paradise. Never is that more apparent than in September, when everything is ripe and full and the meadows haven't been mowed for awhile. Oh, I hate to see them mow right before fall, because then it stays barren all winter, no butterflies, no beautiful weeds sticking up out of the snow, no frost-rimed Queen Anne's lace. But the new guy who's tending our elderly neighbor's fields did come and mow it all down. These photos were taken before he came.

There's a little pair of eyes looking back at you in this first photo. You can see them better in this one:

It's been a very dry late summer. We're finally getting a slow soaking rain today. Chet and I ran anyway, and we both got a hot bath when we got home. Bad weather looks worse from inside a window. Once you're out in it, it feels kind of good. After the first mile.

 

When the bus comes, it trails a rooster-tail of dust behind it. On this day there was a sundog, too, a little strip of rainbow catching the 7:45 AM sunshine.

There is another little sundog who waits for the bus, too.

He guards Liam's pack, sits patiently and listens for the roar of the bus. He always knows when it's coming. He can hear it before we can.

        He checks for squirrelts in the huge pin oak overhead. He's never found one there, but he keeps checking anyway.

 

He's never more beautiful than in the morning sun, waiting for the bus, his satin coat gleaming. 

Here on Indigo Hill, where bluebirds sing the morning in.

The Best-Dressed Dog

I rarely dress my dog so he looks cute. I dress him to keep him warm. The cuteness comes with the package. We both like this little Woolrich coat. Woolrich makes the best dog clothes, at least the best ones I can find. All hail Chez Target. And having a dog who's small enough to dress, and who kind of enjoys it.

I have written before about Chet Baker's uppity nature where other dogs are concerned. For some reason, this basic trait of his is amplified when he's got his gang colors on.

Cooper Davis is his best friend. But look out when Chet's wearing a coat. Maybe he's making a pre-emptive strike in case Cooper decides to say something out of the side of that long black snout about Chet's adorable little letter sweater. Cooper can be sarcastic, under the polite veneer.



All afternoon, Chet seems to have something to prove. We approach one of his favorite climbing logs, and Baker's on it in a flash. Try this, Cooper Davis.

Coat or no coat, I climb very well. I would bet that a dog like you could not climb this log.

No one is stopping you from trying, but do not get your hopes up. This is difficult.

I might not move aside should you try. (note how Chet's normally recumbent turd-tail holds the coat up. He's feeling uppity.)

You probably could not go as fast as I can. Many dogs have fallen from this log.



Because most are not as sure-footed as the Boston Terrier.

You are doing all right for a cattle dog, but you will never attain the grace and speed of me, Chet Baker.

It is misty in Goss' Fork
and the bluebirds are already going to bed in what's left of the shagbark hickory on the hill

One looks out of his roost hole

at the distant foggy hills

and when we get home Chet Baker writes his name on the studio birch. Now everyone knows he's the Top Dog

letter sweater and all.

Nesting Birds

Well, the spring flocks of robins are all gone, paired up, moved off to get down to business.


Everywhere I go I hear the tiny dry trill of nest-building blue-gray gnatcatchers. I know that's an unusual sentence, but I do. They say Prreeeeeep when they're gathering nesting material.


The inner bark of honeysuckle vines is great for gnatcatcher nests, and he tugs mightily to free it.
His mate has a plain face and an eyering, and she's grayer, but just as curious as he.


Out in the meadow, the tree swallows are well underway on their nest construction. They've started to line it with the white goose feathers we provide. Eggs won't be far behind.


They both try to sit on the same post near their nest box, with mixed results.


An angel lands.

Under the deck, the phoebes have been busy, making a nest on the little television relay box. They haven't nested here for two years, since a snake got the nestlings. This year, I built a better baffle, one with no toehold for snakes. Three large panes of tempered glass and a lot of duct tape were involved. She laid two eggs, then they disappeared, before I even built the new baffle. I am hoping so hard that they come back, but I haven't seen them for a couple of weeks. Why would a bird lay two eggs, then leave? There are questions I can't answer.

A billful of deer hair for the lining. She also added Hollofil from one of Chet's toys.

The finished nest.
Phoebes like a low ceiling.

The kids love to come with me when I check bluebird boxes. They especially love the road where Buck the Bull lives.

Hello, Ma'am. I made it through another winter.


So you did, Buck. So you did. Looking a little rough, but some new grass should take care of that.

Phoebe and Liam sit on Buck's gate, talking.
They love to peek in the boxes.
Sometimes there's a different surprise.
Phoebe holds a Carolina chickadee nest of moss, goldenrod stem fiber and deer hair.

The first egg. 

Chickadee mothers cover their eggs with fur and plant down when they have to leave the nest. It's very sweet. They make a little blanket that they pull over the eggs. I adore chickadees. I would love to tell you how many eggs the little hen has now, but she won't budge off the nest when I open the box, and I am not about to kick a chickadee out of her home just so I can know how many eggs there are. Still, it would be nice to know, because eggs are much easier to count than squirmers.

And what of Gouty, the female bluebird who overindulged in Zick Dough last winter and spring?
Well, she's fine, and her feet show no traces of swelling, but she does have stiff middle toes, which stick out in this picture. I've all but stopped feeding suet dough for the spring. Just a snack in the morning.

Gouty's got four daughters about a week away from fledging in the same box she used the last two years.

Here's Whiskers, named for her dark malar stripes, knee -deep in Zick dough. She's got five babies all but fledged in the box by our vegetable garden. 

And the chipping sparrows are trilling everywhere you turn.