Learned about planting fruit trees from an orchard grower down south where water is even less plentiful—you dig an eight-foot-deep hole and put a lot of aged horse manure in the bottom of it, then fill that up with your good soil, plant your tree, encircle it with a big ring of earth, and fill it up with water. The manure keeps it moist down below. Holds that precious water like a spongy reservoir.

We’ve been letting the geese eat the row of corn that Dennis planted way late this summer in the back yard. They camp alongside of it perpetually now, snoozing between snacking. They are five gray feathered teapots with their heads tucked beneath their wings. Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler is wise to give them a wide berth.

Last night I sat on Toby’s broad back and watched the sun go down, rubbing his furry neck with my bare toes. It felt good, like a Turkish towel. And he seemed to like it. I stood on my knees on his back. He rolled an eye at me, mildly interested. Sat on his ample rump. This warranted a turning of the big head in my general direction. Let my legs dangle off over his tail. No response. Just more of the usual unusual from his owner, I imagine the horse might be thinking. Sat sideways. He shook his head, big ears flapping. Waved my arms in the air. (And no, I'm not certifiable. I'm getting him used to what he’ll be experiencing as a vaulting horse.)

The whole time the Percheron nonchalantly dangled one of my old clogs from his mouth. Let it drop. Picked it up again. Dropped it. Etc.

Bugger.