Year of the plagues. Round 2.
The squirrels finally figured out how to get onto the bird feeder. When they finished eating all the seeds, they bit the feeder and shook it. It hangs empty on the corner of Zelda's tiny house, battered and abandoned. Possibly for the best: the cats were starting to stalk around there anyway.
We've been using the city's compost system since they implemented it at the beginning of November. The ex worm bin is a muddy pit with bits of wood and metal poking out.
When the chickens got ate up, Jeff put the rest of their feed and a plastic-wrapped cube of cedar bedding up in the rafters of the garage. Last week he pulled down what was left of the bag (it had been sprinkling the floor and our hair for a couple months) and dumped it under the swings, exposing a half dozen little mice and their nest full of pinkies. Sweet, filthy little animals. Who knows how many generations they raised in the garage, but there was shit on everything. He ran the shop vac with his respirator on for a whole afternoon.
One half of the relatively neglected zone under the plastic must have gotten inoculated by moss at some point, because it is greener than green under there. As Zelda would say, wee-owd. The up-side is that the moss keeps the cats from shitting all over that half.
The other half of the bed at some point became the neighborhood cat-box. I never really had a love for these beasts. They are annoying, predatory toward all the wrong things, and self-satisfied. But shitting in my arugula? WTF!
Take a nice close look at the crazy mold that loves cat shit.
So. Worse than last year? Dunno. Will I be beaten? Dunno. Can I ever eat food from the middle bed again? Dunno. Why is it ok to kill mice and rats and worms but not cats? Because some people love cats. Why? Dunno.
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