Saturday Morning

Once the shade arrived yesterday evening, I mowed my front lawn amid, no doubt, the silent cheers of my neighbors, all of whom hire yard crews which diligently arrive at set times and are not driven by strange schedules or the mood to play gardener. Although the cover story of Arizonans is that we have a dry heat - so does an oven - yesterday was muggy enough to resemble Mississippi and so after I staggered inside the rest of the evening was spent drinking water and attempting to recover the use of my limbs.

This morning has been much nicer. My wife made pancakes and we've been sipping black coffee while scanning The Wall Street Journal and reading portions to one another.

Our dog is curled up in a dog bed by the table and when she's not snoring she is studying the floor for anything which resembles food. She'll later go into the back yard and look for her lizard friends. After some long debate over her breed, we've concluded that she is an American Staffordshire Terrier - an "Am Staff"- and that their reputation for loyalty, affection, and service as a guard dog is well-founded.

Her snores are music. It's Saturday morning.