Fragments From Floyd

Ann said this morning as she rushed to fling herself back into the week of emails and other responsibilities at work: I think I like Abby's world better.

We took Abby back to the Charlotte airport to meet her mom yesterday afternoon, so the place will be strangely quiet today--no little footsteps creeping down the stairs at first light later this morning as I'd almost grown accustomed to.

Not that minding out for and entertaining a five year old is not constant, high-energy and demanding work. Her visit was four days of non-stop walking, climbing, running, splashing and hearing the W-words: what, when, why, where, who? With only an occasional whimper, Abby was in her element here in the country and will carry some clear and lasting memories of chasing butterflies and falling on purpose into cold creek water, and of course, of her constant pal, Tsuga.

One of her most permanent recollections, unfortunately, will be reinforced by the olfactory memories. While I was at the Roanoke Bookfest and Ann and Abby were expecting noontime guests (a playmate) Tsuga took the opportunity with the humans distracted to find his own entertainment: a recently-dead fawn just down the road from the house. And he did what dogs do when they find a cache of reeking, fly-infested eau-de-ungulate: he rolled gleefully in it to become redolent in the stench of the kill (ostensibly his own). Company was expected in less than a half hour, so T-dog became the sudden center of attention again, and got a bath.

The dead deer, however, remains (pun intended). The buzzards have made it somewhat less an ordeal for me later this morning (oh joy!). Armed with pitchfork and rubber gloves, I'll include the carcass pick-up in my run to the greenbox, along the way tossing the remains off into the woods where the buzzards can do their work, but Tsuga won't be tempted to follow the instinct to stink.