So little Diva-Showgirl Gracie, accompanied by her crazed tiger-mom impressario, came back from the tropics! She told tales of strutting her stuff in the ring, paparazzi, and lazy evenings sipping mimosas and fending off gentleman-callers. Plainly, she deserved what she got!
And what did she get?
Morning came, and Her Petite Eminence trotted out to perform her morning ritual. This is what she saw!
Yes, folks--that's the back yard. Now Her Nibs is not especially tiny for a Kerry Blue, and it troubled her that she could not see the beach. Nor the mimosas. Nor the gentleman callers. Nor the horizon--period.
The Gods of Vengeance were extracting their due! Little Miss Blanche DuBois puttered from the front step to the garage. What was once a walkway had become a Stygian tunnel. Note the snowbank on the left...
She demanded to be taken away. Far away. "South," she said. The humans dryly noted that, while the driveway had been shoveled, the streets were impassable. I told her not to worry. Bailey and I would be great company during her confinement over the next few days.
I posed beside my favorite glacier on the back deck. Do I not look like something out of Jack London's bourbon-fueled imagination?
Miss Bailey was having some issues with the new era of limits. She thought she could bark at the snow and it would melt. Nice try.
Gracie decided to launch a reconnaissance of the back deck, convinced that somehow, there would be a patch of sunny beach and palm trees somewhere. She sank into despair. I smiled warmly at her.
As the sun set upon the tundra, Miss Blanche posed in the shadow of the advancing ice, blathering something about always relying on the kindness of strangers...and would some stranger not take her far away from New England?
Gracie will have lots to report about her trip to the Confederacy. In the meantime, Bailey and I are enjoying this.
Buster of the Yukon