I never could take the heat well and every year is more difficult. I’ve worked outside today, but keep retreating into the air conditioning. The temperature at the moment is 88F (31C) and just humid enough to hamper my breathing. Meanwhile, if I climbed the highest ridge and looked eastward across the seas to Wemyss, Scotland, I would see that the temperature is a mere 48F (9C). That’s mowing weather to me, though I’d have to rig up the lights on the tractor because it’s already dark there, the sun having set at 955pm.
Shrekford Files IV
The Lady of the Hollow mentioned that the clothes dryer was taking twice as long to dry as normal. Never one to dawdle, the fat yellow dog was on the case. Turns out the exterior dryer exhaust vent was packed full of twigs. The conglomeration was carefully extracted and sent down to the boys at the lab.
Detailed analysis was performed and the discovery of pretty little eggs inside led Shrek to suspect a bird was involved.
Window Sitting
Looked over at the barn today and saw these two enjoying the afternoon view. First time all spring that I’ve seen two baby buzzards in the window. They appear to be of different sizes, so I don’t know what that means.
Shrekford Files III
If you know the Keeper of the Hollow, you know that he rarely moves along in any gear but first. His father once warned him that if he worked any slower he’d start going backwards. And so the preparations for the summer heat moved at a sloth’s comfortable pace. The nice lady on the ridge donated an old air conditioner to make the hollow workshop more hospitable for the inevitable seasonal temperatures to come.
A window location was decided upon and the unit placed there. The next morning, it was apparent that the air conditioner had not been adequately secured.
The Keeper of the Hollow and his fat yellow detective exchanged a puzzled look and the investigation began. Outside, Shrek noticed three plastic wrapped Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies in the tall weeds.
The Keeper of the Hollow and the yellow detective experienced simultaneous slow-motion epiphanies (this happens often). They raced (walked leisurely) around to the entrance of the workshop and looked on the workbench. The box of Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies placed there the day previous were gone. Their entire year’s supply of emergency rations stolen! Returning to the evidence in the tall weeds, a more thorough examination of the site was conducted. As seen in the photograph, the torn end flap of a Little Debbie box was found. An empty clear plastic wrapper was then found at the bottom of a woven wire fence. The burglars had apparently stopped for sustenance before climbing the fence and disappearing into the forest across the spring creek. The box has yet to be found.
While deeply mourning the loss of the oatmeal pies, work continued and the air conditioner was framed in with wood to be more secure. Clear plastic was used to cover the remainder of the window opening and allow testing of the newly acquired cooling unit.
The next morning the Keeper of the Hollow and the fat one again exchanged meaningful glances. Burgled again! This time the culprits had torn several holes in the clear plastic on the window to gain entry. At least the emergency rations had not yet been replaced.
“I need results, Shrek. I need hard evidence,” the Keeper of the Hollow mumbled as he searched for wire mesh with which to cover the window.
The fat yellow detective nodded though they both knew who the villains would be, they both knew who in the hollow especially loved Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies and operated with the precision of a military special operations team. Yes, it was the raccoons again. Not satisfied with night raids on the bird feeder, their activities were escalating and they wouldn’t be stopped until there was enough evidence from the crime lab for an arrest, trial and conviction. In the meantime, the wire mesh would have to hold strong.
The Good Soldier
For a couple of decades I had dogs of significant stature. Shrek isn’t exactly small, but he’s a hundred pounds less than Frost and half the size of Chandler and the beautiful Bronte. Shrek guards us the best he can, and takes his watchdog duties seriously. I have no doubt Chandler was capable of bringing down a man, afterall that’s what bullmastiffs were bred for. Bronte weighed 110 pounds and had amazing speed. It’s a long story but I watched her catch a full grown doe by the throat and slam her head into the ground. Frost could be stressful to have on staff because he was perfectly willing to maul any misbehaving visitors to the hollow. And yet, Shrek’s as loyal a dog as I’ve ever had. Here he’s clambered inside the Mountaineer and intently awaits orders.
Constrained Chaos
Moments ago, I sat here in my chair with the front door propped open, reading to the soothing sounds of the fat yellow dog asleep on the porch. The birds at the feeder and hopping around his body were talking and chirping and yelling as they do. Suddenly, they scatter and I heard constrained chaos above the snoring. It’s a sound I recognize and it means that they’re about out of seed. I step out and see panic inside the feeder, the wings slapping the interior. The littlest of birds go inside for the food they see through the window, then can’t get out.
The terror of the situation must tire him out as he finally slows and I see that he’s blue. It takes more coaxing than you’d expect, but he finally streaks off.
The Shrekford Files II
Yesterday, the yellow dog and I were piddling around the workshop when we heard strange sounds emanating from the strip of trees at the end of the garden. It must have been of animal origin, but sounded alien and joyous. Suddenly, Shrek exploded off in a sprint, his hackles raised. Exploded may be too strong a word here. He is by far not the fastest dog I’ve known (that would be the beautiful Bronte), but neither is he the very slowest (that would be the basset Waldo). Halfway down the garden barking, Shrek slowed at the intimidating sound of large wings gaining altitude. Immediately, I realized I knew those weird sounds of a minute before, it was the vocalizations of happy vultures over carrion. As I walked the garden and wondered what the dead animal would be, two buzzards awkwardly landed in a tree above me.
I could no longer see yellow Shrek, but I noticed one buzzard was looking downward. With it just being the pair, I assumed it was the black vulture couple that lives here every spring and not bigger turkey vultures. (Though smaller than turkey vultures and eagles, black vultures still have a nearly six foot wingspan.)
This was not good news for the Shrek below as black vultures can be quite aggressive. If he was sniffing around their meal, they might run him off. I wasn’t concerned, though. Shrek may be of pure heart as my dog consultant says, but he is not known for his courage. No dog has such a talent for quick retreat as my yellow one.
I reached the trees to find Shrek in full investigative mode. We searched but there was no dead animal, no rotting husk of a deer or raccoon or ground hog. Shrek kept returning to one spot, indicating to me where the big smelly birds probably had been.
All I can figure is that they were drinking from this little spring creek branch that rarely runs above ground. Or perhaps they were playing in the water from the happy sounds they were making. It wouldn’t surprise me as they have big and bold personalities.
As the World Burns…
Me and the yellow fellow were at the mailbox and saw this looking north.
The Shrekford Files
If someone were to say, “Sure, your dog is fat and yellow, but is he skilled at investigation?” I would answer, “Look at him, and you tell me.”
Up to the County Road
The yellow dog and I just had occasion to run up to the county road that snakes along the ridge top. I noticed as always this time of year that spring is in perpetual transition. Walking down to the vehicle, the lilacs are close to full bloom today.
I glance to the barn and see that all the peach blossoms are gone. I look across the garden and see that the wild plum tree is starting to fade. We had several wild plum trees along there until the ice storm of ’09. The redbud trees behind still have color.
I’m momentarily occupied inserting a fuse so that various things on the vehicle will work.
Up the drive we go, gaining elevation. Looking into the woods, I slow to a stop when I see specks of white to ascertain from a distance what the flowers belong to. I’m a bit alarmed at the number of the little thorny lime trees I see growing. I call them “lime trees” while the books call them “trifoliate orange.” It’s a citrus species from Korea and China gone wild in our sheltered hollow. I’ve written about them before. They produce a nice looking fruit similar to a lime that doesn’t seem good for much of anything besides maybe squeezing into a glass of summer lemonade or iced tea.
I like having a few around because they’re exotic and have been here much longer than I, but they shouldn’t get out of hand. For one thing, their thorns are not friendly. I know from experience that they can go quite deep into flesh. The photograph does not do them justice.
I do see some white flowers here and there that I did not notice yesterday. This is an example, under these two massive oaks that I think of as formidable sentries to the hollow.
The yellow one and I disembark for a closer look. It is as I expected, the dogwood blossom, the official harbinger of tourists to the Ozarks. Except this year, this year is different. The world is advertised as being in disarray yet these trees go about their business and take no notice.
Bone Collector
Like any good Arkansawyer who lives in the woods, I run across bones periodically and save a few. Over the years they accumulate, but not being too methodical about it, they get stuck here and there, in stuff and under stuff. The other day I was moving things around in an outbuilding and uncovered bones that had been missing for years. I said, “Well, there they are.” Shrek glanced over but did not comment. (As a reminder, Shrek is a fat yellow dog.)
San Andres Mountains
The neighborhood Master Naturalist was recently posted to the desert southwest fighting invasive plants. She took this photograph in the San Andres Mountains of southern New Mexico showing the yellow poppies in bloom.
