I went down there about 2:00, my only goal being to put out some ant bait I had concocted in the kitchen, a 1/6 mixture of borax and sugar, dampened with a few drops of water. The bait was in a clear plastic deli container, with the lid taped on and holes punched in it so the ants can get in. Nanny came out on the porch when I drove up, and I was glad because I wanted to show her the container and where I put it so she wouldn't think it was trash and throw it away, or walk up in the middle of an ant-fest. She came out to the garden with me and showed me where she'd been when ants had bitten her. I put the container down where it can be seen. And somehow, we ended up spending an hour pulling weeds and putting down landscape fabric between the purple hull pea rows.
We've got cucumbers on the vines - enough for a batch of cucumber relish when they get a little bigger.
Nanny picked purple hull peas Wednesday, and they need picking again. I told her, "Do not come out here and pick peas in the morning. Your son and I will pick them some time tomorrow. Might not be in the morning. You know how he is. Early morning gardening is not his thing."
The A/C repairman drove up while I was in the garden, giving me a hall pass to get out of there. It took them less than 30 minutes to do what they came to do. They said it's working. I hope it KEEPS working. I'm tired of fooling with repairmen.
Yesterday, there was havoc among the extended-family pets. My granddaughters went to see their other grandparents for their 4th of July dinner. They took their two dogs with them. (Their other grandparents are pet lovers, unlike we two scrooges.) One of the dogs was - notice the "was?" - a tiny thing, a miniature something-or-other, and he had a heat stroke and died at the other grandparents' house. Granddaughter #1, the veterinary-school hopeful, the dog's special person, tried to revive him and was distraught when she could not. During all the commotion, the grandparents' dog, a big old floppy-eared blood hound, escaped the fence and hit the ground, running lickety-split, and would not come back when called. While we waited to hear news of the dog, we talked about how hot it was, and that if the dog had any sense he'd be in a creek or a pond or somebody's in-ground swimming pool. Two hours later, after a fairly wide-spread neighborhood search hadn't turned up the dog, The Husband decided we should join the search party and extend the range.
A big recreational lake stretches behind the neighborhood where the dog lives. You'd have to drive miles to get there, but it's not far (in dog terms) through the woods. The Husband and I got in the truck, and when he backed it out of the driveway, we were not headed the direction I expected. I said, "Where are we going?"
He said, "To the lake."
And I'm thinking, Okayyyyy, but ....
So we drove on to the lake, the entrance to which is on the opposite side of the lake from where the dog lives. As we were driving into the public entrance, I couldn't help myself; I had to say it:
"The dog would likely be on the other side of the lake."
Regrettably, the dog had not swum the lake and was not waiting by pier to get in our truck.
We drove a few other places, looking for the dog.
He (the dog) came home about 2 this morning. All is well with him.
I texted Granddaughter #1 this afternoon to send my condolences about her little dog. Personally, I was not sorry to see the little dog go. He was a shithead, and a disgusting little creature. But I hated that my baby girls were all sad.
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