As my parents would say, "It's blowin' a gale."
Hurricane Igor is ambling through our province and threatening our barbecues.
I'm here to boost moral and give everyone up-to-the-minute reports on how I'm doing:
I'm okay.
Usually I enjoy a good storm.
No one really expects anything of you.
You can put on your pajamas in the morning and leave them on.
You have a decent excuse on reserve for anything that you may forget to do or not do later that week.
"Sorry I forgot to get my greyhound registered for the race-
that storm on Tuesday was something else.
Lost my rain gutter.
Can I still enter him now?
He has been eating raw eggs all week. He wants to get in there."
You can buy aging greyhounds, y'know.
They have all of their shots, they have all of their papers.
They're well-trained.
They're sleek.
In a storm like this they can be used as a weather vane.
And from what I understand they're rather inexpensive.
What a bargain.
The only problem with these dogs is the obligation to name them all Santa's Little Helper.
I'd ask for one that didn't win any races.So that the dog and I would have something in common.
I don't need a pet with a blue ribbon mentality.
That's why I left that cocky Wilbur on the farm.
Colin has begun concocting his own beer.
I may aid him in the process in the near future.
Then I won't feel so bad about drinking all of his hard work at Christmas time.
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