We prepared thoroughly for Sandy, as it was predicted to run right over us with associated winds and heavy rain. The possibility of extended power outages, so we readied water, food, flashlights, solar chargers, all the goodies. But unlike points east, the storm was fairly trivial. The power only flickered, and while Penn State closed for half a day, nothing else of moment occurred.
Trygvi refuses to walk in the rain, though, so we had several days of bored boxer, and concomitant indoor destruction. It’s hard to blame him: he has almost no fur. This morning it was only drizzling, so we managed a two-mile walk before breakfast, but that was the first extended perambulation since Sunday. Bored, bored, bored, energetic, destructive.
Boxers, it seems, are made of rubber and perpetual motion machines. I have not managed to capture photographically the famed boxer headstand: Tryg doesn’t lie down like an ordinary dog, he moves from standing to prone via a headstand. Sometimes a somersault is involved. The headstand is also the best possible way to chew on one’s ankles, it seems.
The garden was pulled out weeks ago, after a season of many tomatoes, some chiles, piles of herbs, excessively-large cucumbers (they hid!), and a small but attractive crop of beans.
A poem popped into my head today for no perceptible reason. Not mine, but the poem that was my all-time favorite as a kid, topping even Jabberwocky in my esteem. I hadn’t thought of it for years: Eletelephony, by Laura Elizabeth Richards.
