Another rainy day. I plan to take myself out for Indian food at lunch, with one of my McCarry novels, and also buy plants for a fountain we cleaned up in the sunroom over the weekend. The sound is sometimes soothing and often makes me need to pea, so it must be turned on judiciously. The sunroom is no longer the jungle room, at least until everything grows back, drops off or dies. It is a rule in our house. All orchids and bonzais die, usually immediately, upon seeing who their new caretakers are. Now I have nothing but hearty philodendrons, a huge fig, and succulents. Those succulents can take a lot of abuse, which is why we have many, many pots of Christmas cacti. Outside, we stick to azaleas, camillias, and those tough iris that can withstand being snacked upon by labs.
We once had a beautiful back yard, with a pond, stream and baby tears. That was before the twins, as the vet likes to call them. Now we have bare ground, a lot of muddy balls and bushes that can withstand the impact of a body slamming 75 pound dog. There are rocks and wooden pathways and trees. They have not taken to tree climbing so far.
The male dog is now relaxing in my black leather chair, spreading the mud evenly over all surfaces. The female, slightly grumpy, as usual, is lying on the walkway getting damp enough to destroy the rug in the kitchen when we go back inside. And they wonder why they get locked in the kitchen when we're gone.
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