Hot Pants

It's really hard to avoid commenting on the (can't come up with a family friendly word so) clusterfuck that is vaccine distribution in the USofA.  Do the Trumps have financial ties to Moderna? Heather Cox Richardson thinks so, and she's my go-to person for current events.  Were the states prepared for shouldering the entire burden of distribution? Will there ever be a place for honest COVID information that is readily available to the public (asking for a friend)?

But I'm not going there.  I have one more week of self-imposed exile from the political fray, and I'm trying to indulge without worrying that I'm missing the big picture.  Luckily, Big Cuter and TBG are addicted and affixed to their devices (tv and phone and computer) so nothing really gets lost.  If I need to know, they tell me.  I allow myself HCR's morning posts and then I move on.

Yesterday, I was pruning the gonphreda, which had long ago gone to seed.  The tall wavy stalks were shedding pink and white mess all over the yard; though the wind blew it away, the plant itself needed help.  So I took my pretty purple Xmas present gardening gloves out for their first foray, sighing over the sorry condition of my pruning shears.  The sharpener is at the Farmer's Market, and there are too many humans breathing the air there for me to feel comfortable getting to his back corner.  

Soon....... soon.......

But, I digress into sadness.... and I retreat just as quickly.

Back at the tall planter, gathering all the stems and cutting carefully above any new leaves that had sprouted, I began to snip.  I moved to my left, and bumped into a sleeping pig.

(Not a sentence many of you could type, right?!?)

LiLou is camouflaged when she reclines; her coloring matches the desert rocks and ground cover stones.  She certainly wasn't obvious to me, even though I was standing right next to her.  

My excuse for such ineptitude on my part?  I was looking at the bright blue sky and the brighter white clouds scudding across the horizon before I turned my gaze to the planter.  I missed the ground entirely.

But LiLou knew I was there, and she snuffled and snorted and moved away when I inadvertently nudged her hip.... quite ungraciously I might add.  

She's my Grand Pig, and I want her to love me, so I bought my way back into her affections with a treat - the stems of the plant that I'd just beheaded.

The wispy flowers were ignored in favor of the greener leaves and the crunchy stems.  She chewed and chewed and chewed as I moved the plants around so she could reach her favored treats. Her ruff went up straight - a sure sign of happiness - and then there were the hot pants.

Pants as in panting, not the short shorts you were imagining.  

It's a deep in the throat, guttural hoo hoo hoo that was terrifying until Queen T told me that, in pig language, those hot pants mean I LOVE YOU.

The way to a pig's heart is, obviously, through her stomach.