Brent came to my door today and said something about cows and grass and fences. I assume that’s what he was talking about since he looked excited, and that’s all he’s thinking about when he’s excited. It’s like Munson running in and woo-wooing me: I know that’ll be about walks and rabbits and scratch-my-back please.
I wasn’t quite ready for either Brent or Munson’s morning eagerness as I hadn’t put any caffeine-power into processing the daylight savings time change and was still dreaming hazy dreams in my dressing gown. Eventually I kicked into higher gear and went out to check all the new flowers that had been tickled into wakefulness by a little overnight rain.
From the top of the driveway I could see Brent’s pickup parked way down the driveway, and so with Munson dashing around trying to anticipate my trajectory, headed down through the daisy-scarred fields and vineyards to one of the lower lakes where Brent and Lucy were respectively fixing fences and sowing clover seed.
Munson took to the water, and then went off careening around the lake edges, a volley of frogs springing to safety from banks to water with the precision of Busby Berkeley choreography. I sat at the tip which seems like the southern end of Africa from a low angle, Munson whizzing past me repeatedly, his thick coat spraying a wake behind him.
When I got back to the relative sanity of my villa, I was prompted by an email to check a YouTuber’s hilariously cryptic comment on a video I’d posted of Munson. There he’s swimming and madly running around on a Sydney beach when he was half his present age: not much has changed there.