Yesterday started out with a bang because Paw Licker Annie and moi had the house to ourselves while the old woman Slow climbed up into the Dodge Dakota and drove off to visit her cousins, the Church Organist and the Country Farmer, at their place near Navasota which is twenty-five miles from Worsham Street.  Our day was low-key and we slept most of the time she was gone.  Ho hum.  Nothing requiring any effort on The Red Man’s part.

Of course, Slow called Pretty as soon as she got home.   Pretty was working at the Mast General Store this weekend and didn’t have but a second to hear about the cousins who were up in arms about Brother Number Three,  the one we call the Guitar Player, because he sold their air compressor they needed to finish replacing the siding on the old home place for less than what they paid for it and now how were they ever going to get the nails in the siding?  And to top it all off, the Guitar Player had used the money to buy bait and beer and gone fishing over at Lake Somerville.  Could Pretty believe it?  Evidently not since she hung up.

It was downhill after that.


One of the Little Women of Worsham Street on roof

The Tasmanian Devil worker bee across the street from us was on the roof cleaning out her gutters…in this HEAT.   Slow started talking to her to try to get her down from the gutter project, but no way Jose.  She was up there and by God, she was going to stay up there as long as she needed to.  Well, The Red Man admires her spunk and gives her Paw Snaps and Twirls for the work she’s done on her vacation weekend.  Her house is easy on the eyes, and we love to look at it.

While we were watching the roof drama unfold, PL Annie and I were compelled to go on DEFENSE to protect our house from invasion.  In this HEAT.


Paw Licker Annie may be old, but she still likes a Barkarama


Unfortunately, her barking is directionally challenged


The root of all evil: Bickford, the C-A-T

Damn the torpedos!  Full speed ahead!  We must protect this house – from that Pompous Pussy!  Scat, cat!

It’s a wonder I didn’t have a heat stroke running up and down the fence barking as loud as I could until Bickford leisurely strolled back to his yard.  And instead of THANKING somebody for a job well done, I have to put up with Slow chasing around behind me trying to get me to go inside and be quiet.  She can bite me.

All’s well that ends well, as The Red Man is fond of saying, and the ‘Hood was back to normal today.  Across the Pond, however, it was V-Day on the grass courts for the Brits.  After a short dry spell of only 77 years, the Wimbledon trophy stayed with a home boy and all of us at Casa de Canterbury and on Worsham Street salute him.


Here’s looking at you, Andy.  You ain’t carrying that heavy burden anymore.  It was a Wacky Wimbledon the past two weeks but you took the bull by the horns and came out the winner.  Somewhere Rafa Nadal and Roger Federer were having strawberries and cream and a little bit of envy.

That’s it for now Sports Fans.  Get me outta here Percy, I’m a Hot Dog tonight and I’m looking for the Cool…