The heat is stifling. I might as well pull the racks out of the oven and put a lawn chair in there and bake myself at 200 degrees for 12 hours. It's as hot as Missi-freakin'-sippi during the basketball camp vacation last year.
Today I returned to T-Hoe after a doctor's appointment, and discovered the temperature reading to be 111 degrees. Yesterday, as I stood beside Poolio for a brief moment to speak to the #1 son, our chickens meandered out of the woods. Just in case any food happened to fly off of me in their direction. Survivor, our very first rooster, a buff and orange and black specimen of prime kitchen-towel-calendar splendor, stopped a few feet away. He laid down. He slowly slipped sideways, with one wing askew.
"What's the deal with Survivor?"
"I don't know. I hate them all. They run at me and I try to kick them."
"You can't do that."
"I don't hurt them. Just get them away. But I'd like to take that little speckled rooster and throw him like a football."
"He attacks everybody. But Survivor's all right."
"Yeah. Survivor is OK."
"Look at him. Is he dying?"
"Why's he laying down like that?"
"I don't know. He's breathing, though."
"His eyes are closed. He's not taking a dust bath. There's no dust."
"Maybe he's tired."
"He can't take a nap in the sun. He'll die."
"He's fine. Start over there."
"Oh! He's up! I guess he was just laying on that little bare patch to cool off. It's like mud from where I dump D'Hummi twice a day."
Farmer H tells me that the blackberries are withering from the Hillmomban summer. He knows this, because every day he eats a handful. And complains that the deer have been eating them.
Yes. Farmer H has a bone to pick with nature. Those blasted deer have been eating his berries, when they could have hopped in their deer car and driven to town to buy their own snacks with their deer currency, like sugar-free oatmeal-raisin cookies, or seedless green grapes, or whole-grain Honey Nut Cheerios. How dare the wild fauna deprive him of the wild flora that is so rightfully his!