27 Sep (Wed) OFF. 30° on the porch. Take it easy, boy. Hung out by the stove with Lucy. ◦◦◦◦◦ Pack string passed by pretty early, heading out. (I’d heard bells last evening upmeadow.) Group camped at Black’s. One fella peeled off and rode over, Frank Smith, a very western kinda guy. That is, authentic-western as opposed to faux-western. I went out and greeted him. His dog went missing and he wanted me to know. Talked awhile. ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked with the mini-lion into the gorge, then later we took a second walk across the river to pick some late flowers. Carried cat across the bridge (he didn’t seem to wanna cross on his own for some reason) and found a few scant blooms of autumn composites across the way, mostly asters and butterweed. ◦◦◦◦◦ In the late afternoon I was in the cabin, writing in this log. Sun was coming in through the west window casting a long, lean light across the table. Beside my clipboard was the previous volume of the Piute Log and, in slanting light, I saw a large flea standing out against the brown notebook’s cover. Just sitting there. Realized that, only minutes before, I’d had Shitbird up on my shoulder. Before I could even think, the flea hopped with an inaudible “ping!” and was gone. Fleas on the dinner table. Fleas in the ranger’s bed. Big fat fleas in the ranger’s hair. Rodent fleas…. (PLAGUE!!!) Life of a ranger-who-lives-with-cats, sigh.
©2020 Tim Forsell 25 Aug 2020
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