The #1 son is getting a truck tomorrow. He can't get his license for another week, but he'll have wheels when he does.
#1 and his new best friend, Daddy H, went Santa-playing and truck-shopping Saturday. One must have been a condition for the other, because I distinctly recall #1 stating that he was not going to be an elf. And Daddy H agreed that he was too big to be an elf, having obviously forgotten Buddy, that spaghetti-syrup-swilling, raccoon-hugging fellow. The Pony must have been mentally pumping his fist and hissing "YES!" after his unfortunate incapacitation on Thursday. Apparently, elves do not have splints and arm slings. Santa Daddy H dropped The Pony like a hot potato.
We had a spate of snow flurries at the Mansion this morning. A dusting of snow hung around until noon. It was only 25 degrees, which was not news to the giant goldfish trapped under ice in the Hillbilly fish pond. The cats marveled at their captive prey, stepping out and licking the transparent barrier.
Tank the beagle has found his own prey, which are like sitting ducks, the laying chickens in the chicken coop. He hasn't eaten the chickens yet, but enjoys a round of fresh eggs daily. That is Daddy H's conclusion as to why he's only getting about 1 egg a day now, instead of the usual 4 or 5. Of course, chickens slack off on their laying in the cold weather, but they don't normally leave broken egg shells laying around their coop. A further nail in Tank's coffin of circumstantial evidence is the fact that The Pony has caught him sleeping in the coop on two separate evenings. Daddy H needs a refresher course on how to build a chicken coop, because what good is a coop that allows a fat beagle to enter at will?
According to the forecast, this is going to be a week of wasted cold weather. Temperatures near freezing for the highs, and no precipitation in sight. At least my chance to win a free notepad is still alive in the Guess The First Day We Miss School Due To Snow contest. January 11, here we come.