In which I go off on the farm. Again.

I had breakfast yesterday at Bob Evans with the group. We laughed a lot. Then we walked back to the motel and BoSe left for an ‘urgent meeting’ in Truck & Bowling Jesus’ room *nudge nudge, wink wink*, and I got ravished. Then Bread gave me much of his remaining cash, we loaded the Exploder, and off I went.

It took about six hours to get to the Red Rock. I called AmmZon and she came right over and we caught up while I ate.

Then I drove the rest of the way home. It was stormy. Our housesitter was there; he’d changed the sheets on the bed, bless his heart, and they were in the wash when I arrived. (The dogs had slept on the bed, he said.) We chatted a bit, then he went out to see his Grandma. (He never came back.)

I took a brief tour of the house.

Entropy.

He’d been sleeping there, on the couch, but that was about it. He hadn’t been hanging out there much — and I don’t blame him, he’s got his own life, not to mention two jobs — and the house was starting to revert to nature.

Dust everywhere. An eviscerated dead mouse on the kitchen counter. Bugs, spiderwebs.

My office was spotless when I left three weeks ago. Left entirely to its own devices, it was filthy when I returned, covered in a thick layer of dust. It looked like it had been empty for a couple of years.

Anyway, the point is that I hate that place. Officially. It’s depressing. I simply don’t like living in the country in an old farm house. It would be marginally better living in the country in a brand new house, but only just. Nature is dirty, that’s her thing, that’s what she does.

Not to mention that we can’t really afford it, not without Bread working full-time. Which he hasn’t been for the past two years or so. Mortgage, twice-annual balloon payments, insurance, property tax. The thing is an anchor. Albatross. Whatever. I’d try to convince Bread that we should put it on the market, but with the house ripped apart in the way that it is, I really doubt it would sell.

To make homecoming even more nifty, Shiva is nearly bald. He’s got scabs all over from biting himself. Bindu’s got a thin patch of fur on each haunch where she’s been squinching. Stella’s coat looks fine, but she’s obviously itchy, too. All three dogs were Frontlined the week before we left, so they’re not even due for another dose yet. Yet they’re clearly totally fucking miserable.

I pulled poor, practically-bald Shiva into the shower with me this morning and sudsed him thoroughly with soothing, minty, non-toxic Dr Bronner’s. He couldn’t decide if he was freaked out or in bliss, and alternated from whining with discomfort to grunting in pleasure. It was pretty cute. As was his drying off dance afterward.

I’m going to put all three dogs on children’s Benadryl and Dr Bronner them every third day until they’re better. Poor fuckers. Damn fleas.

I’m not sure if I’m willing to try and bathe the cat. He’s a pretty mellow cat, though, so maybe. We’ll see. Maybe I’ll just brush him daily.

In other news, within 15 minutes of arriving back at work (two days late, mind you) I got an email that I have a one o’clock meeting with the department head. So now I’m all nervous because two contractors got laid off yesterday, and there was no meeting topic supplied. Watch, I’m probably getting laid off. Wouldn’t that be perfect.

Update: I went for my one o’clock. I walked in, said, “Ready?” and he said, “Can we do it at 3? I’m just swamped.”

I’m guessing I’m not getting laid off. Repurposed, more likely.