Old Bomber's funeral is on; the town is EMPTY. It's like one of those movies where the main character wakes up and humans have disappeared. They're all down at the cemetery to pay their respects, then have a big punch up between Meeka mob and Wiluna mob (Gary is standing at the back, ready to drive off as the fisticuffs begin).
Boy is such a fool. It's like living with a teenage boy with attention deficit disorder. The other night he somehow got tangled up under a chair and ran panicking through the house with it kind of clinging to his back; it sounded like the percussion section of Tom Waites' band falling down some stairs, with dog accompaniment ("Ooo woo woo woo!", which is Boy code for "Help! My brain has stopped! Something confusing is happening!"). I pulled it off him and he grinned sheepishly, wagging his tail and licking my leg. "You're welcome," I said.
I'm digging up the front garden area ready for planting the security cactus & bougainvillea; he stands right where I'm trying to dig, pouncing inelegantly on tiny bugs or something that only he can see, then falling asleep on a pile of dirt with his head in the trench, snoring. When he wakes up, he and Honey play idiot games, knocking over furniture and dragging their blankets all over the yard. He has a real sense of humour and gives me this hilarious sideways look with a little smile, tail wagging. When I tell him to stay home and guard the house, he collapses flat on the ground, moaning.
A stunning looking little falcon is visiting the gum tree next door; it's white and grey, and the wagtails are pestering it like mad. They must have a nest up there; either that or it's got its eye on Henrietta's eggs. It's not big enough to carry Honey off. I think.
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