A Mud Day Beyond the End of the World

The day began warm and mild. I was quite comfortable with my down vest over a rugby shirt. I started off with making breakfast burritos, coffee, and some cleaning/grooming projects. Being a nice day in early mud, I felt the urge to do some tidying.

It's been a bit since the hounds had been subjected to a decent brushing. With Chevy and Whistler, being the former champion show dogs, this was not nearly as traumatic; just assume the position and it'll all be over sooner than later. Milarepa, on the other hand, being the youngest, and, having never been to a dog show, was a bit more spazzy, though she enjoyed the attention. Amusingly enough, she was in the least need of brushing, even if what came from all three was the equivalent of a pack of chihuahuas.

After that was a spot of vacuuming. Between three dogs, three cats, six ferrets, and two long-haired hominids, this can be interesting. Even and especially when one has been slothful about it. The penance price of this was another couple drop-kick dogs worth of hair along with the other detritus, but the Persian rug in the parlor looked fabulous.

It would not be a Tuesday without me at the very least contemplating a walkabout. Because there were a few other things I meant to accomplish during the day, I just opted for the milk run of the Bull's Head. Certainly, doing just the trail and no side excursions deeper into the bush, I'd not even need a pack. Some have told me of jogging that trail, though, with the grade, I'd think it'd be torture.

I did not even climb to the top of the rock formation, from which the trail takes its name. The soles of my boots were wet with what little snow there was, and the route I like to take up these days-when I don't take a hound with me-requires a bit of bouldering. I did make a promise to myself and that bouldering route we'd be having a date within the month. Then I cut down from the ruins of the Diamond Mine to the 730 and across to ruins of the Ashby Tunnel and the eastern edge of town.

The Road was closed because of mitigation-tis the season. I sat upon a rock, watching my tiny world go by and noting the excellent zen silence of the road being closed for a bit. As I sat, half-meditating upon the serenity of my place in the world, I came to a bit of a resolution; every Tuesday, even if I don't go on a proper walkabout, I'll at least do the Bull's Head, as to keep my lithe-a polite way of saying emaciated-figure and my trekking wits about me.

Traffic started moving again, as did I. There was the necessary evil of a trash run and a social call to my friend at the winery. I also wanted to swing by the library to start acquiring seasons of Northern Exposure for Sabina to watch. She's never seen it-imagine!-and, others within our Sahel refer to our funky little township as Colorado's version of that show. I find this to be a moral imperative, even if I do have the morals of an alley cat.

I can give Sabina shit for not having seen Northern Exposure or even Office Space-the corporate America survival guide, and we both did our penance in that perdition once upon a time-but I do get the backfists of perspective. My friend at the winery was going on about a show called Big Bang Theory and how it makes her laugh. I may have heard of this, but it's been many, many years since I've owned a television set, even then just for news, films, documentaries, and PBS. Pretty much what I do on the 'puter nowadays. A few years back, my daughter and my siblings gave up on asking me if I'd seen such-and-such show or commercial. The fact get excited about streaming a new episode of Nature or Nova doesn't surprise them. My daughter mocks me when I threaten to punish her for something like defying me and dating.

"What are you going to do, Dad? Tell me I'm grounded from TV when I visit you?"

Insolent whelp. She gets this from her mother, you realize. I'd never be that way.

Stop laughing...

By the time I got back to the House of Owls and Bats, thin cobweb clouds had begun to cover the sky. A harbinger; meteorological prophecy foretells of weather moving in, though it's to most cut south before doing an upslope upon the badlands of eastern Colorado. With the delightful feel to the air, one could be forgiven for questioning a storm of any kind being on its way. The way the weather's been period, comma, and explanation point, questioning weather other than dry is forgivable.

I sat back with some tea! earl grey! hot!-thank you for leaving that psychic auditory tattoo, Patrick Steward, you pigfucker-and some bluegrass on the radio. Potentially, there's a documentary from both! Nature and Nova I can stream. There's the historical society meeting if we board members can rustle up a quorum. Perhaps some jambalaya and sautéed greens for supper. The world is my metaphoric oyster, despite being many miles in distance and elevation from any of the world's oceans. As I relax, thinking of my wonderful mud day, the Talking Heads sing within the walls of my skull;

"Home-
is where I want to be,
but I guess I'm already there..."

So it goes...