It’s Sunday evening, the dogs are snoring, and I reflect on my awesome weekend. Nothing monumental happened. It was your run of the mill event, with a return trip from Monterey, a potluck party to attend, a visit to Sis, lunch with my son, a couple of dog walks, and an afternoon sewing, gardening, and doing laundry.
I got a glimmer of a book idea this morning while I petted one of my dogs, something I said to her and then realized it was a book title.
I still have two newspapers to finish reading, a new book to start, and my week planned out (I like to be organized). October is a busy time for a costume business owner, since the thrift stores are loaded with all kinds of weird things that might fit into my business model of selling pioneer outfits. It’s a mad dash for three weeks searching for those elusive aprons, newsboy caps, suspenders, plaid shirts, old-fashioned dresses and anything I can use to turn regular clothes into historical costumes. I am also collecting baker’s clothing for a chorus photo shoot. More on that later.
I don’t have the dreaded Monday morning job to report to tomorrow. I’ve spent half of my life doing that and the other half not doing that, by writing books, running my own shop (closed on Mondays), and owning my own online business. Being your own boss mean s you work twice as hard, but your hours are flexible and you can hike on a Wednesday morning if the hills are calling.
I’ve sold books door to door(virtually giving up two summers during college), worked as a USPS flexible letter carrier for two more summers, worked at the racetrack for another summer, bartended for two more summers, and so on. I like to be busy. I like to have a plan ( I already said that). Even now as a mostly-retired person, I like to chart out the week. It’s also so I won’t forget anything. Retired people are notorious for forgetting stuff, like what day it is.
The house needs a thorough cleaning, but it’s not on the list. However, I will wash the bathroom rug since one of my dogs deposited a large dead rat on it yesterday afternoon (in the bathroom with the dog door to the yard). I screamed, not expecting it to be there. But I am grateful that it was dead and that it was not deposited on my bed.
Did Daisy kill the rat, or did the rat poison do it? I am betting on the poison since we had just returned from three days away. Maybe Daisy brought it in to say, Hey, look what I found! Or maybe Pepper brought it in to say, I may not be a rat terrier, but labs can be helpful, too.
One down, and who knows how many to go?
Desperate times call for poison. I’d been putting it off since poisoned animals can sicken animals that eat them. But the baby rats squeaking under the shed were giving me the heebie jeebies.
Rats can produce a litter every twenty-one days. Females can have up to eight litters per year.
I hope the dead one was a girl rat.