The geese’s flight sings the first notes of autumn.

Badger woke up, saw Cowboy off to morning service, grabbed a paintbrush and a couple cans of paint, and got to work. 
She painted from 11 a.m. until well after dark—and I mean well after dark.

I don't know what bee bit her butt, but she got the front door repainted. 
We couldn’t find the original tomato red, so we went with cranberry—and over the old red, it turned a right pretty shade of maroon-ish.

She got the outer door—Cowboy made the thing, and it defies description—painted black.

She painted the inside of the back door black—which looks amazing—but at night, if you're not careful, you're liable to break a nose walking into it.

She painted the outside of the back door and the porch railings white.

She painted my she shed door the same as the front door, and on that one, it’s more pink than red or maroon. 
And did I mention the house, and she shed roof are a nice shade of barn red?

She did the blades off the cow windmill—painted them orange, blue, and white. 
She painted a set of throwing knives orange.

She drove me a little nuts, flitting from job to job—but her way got it done, eventually.

After Cowboy got home from church, he tried to fix the Rooba. 
Yep, we killed another one. 
Those darn things just can't handle the amount of pet hair we have.

Then he curled up in his recliner and snoozed until evening service—or pretended to snooze. 
When Badger or I get into a cleaning or painting zone, he’s learned to roll over and play dead.

I was not-so-politely informed I didn’t know how to paint, so I watched TV, read, played my game on the Kindle, messed around on the computer—and sniffed more paint than is good for anyone.

It was a very long day—and it felt like it.

Just before sunset, Badger and I were at the carport when we heard loud honking. 
We looked up, and a flock of geese flew over—so low, so close you could see the rusty heads on them.
It was peaceful, despite the loud honking. 
I guess migration has begun. 
Drat.

Cowboy was late getting home from evening service. 
He came in complaining about the fellow talking his ear off—but secretly, I think he enjoys the gossip.

I believe I can head to bed. 
I’ve started the weirdest book series—no, I haven’t abandoned Walter Cronkite. 
I think I still have a week or two left on checkout time with him. 
I try to read a chapter or two a day. 
We’re up to the Kennedy assassination, so surely it can’t go on much longer.
Anyway, the new series is a quick read—just plumb weird.