News flash — I have keeper doors. No more door guys. No miss. Everybody stop for a quick boogie. Jury still out on hair. End flash.

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While there are still patches of ice and snow spotted throughout the back garden, much of the lawn and gardens are clear. Gracie Allen and I shoveled ice off the patio and dumped it on the lawn on a sun-warmed afternoon this past week. Technically, I shoveled and Gracie Allen romped and chased after flying ice. It’s important for dogs to have chores.

Snugged against a back corner of our house is a small clump of crocus that I await, somewhat impatiently, to poke into spring and bloom it’s little head off. It’s a race against time, because the birds are waiting just as eagerly to deflower it. They’re busy building their nests, you see, and they’re either using the flowers for bedding or as a power snack between foraging sessions — kind of like stopping for a Starbucks between shoe stores. It’s a marathon thing.

This reminds me of what Dorothy Parker had to say about spring —

Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fools heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.

I guess Dorothy knew a thing or two about the dark side of springtime.

Thursday, I went out to see the progress of my crocus, and their little heads had gone missing. I’d lost the race, again. Coming from farming stock, I accept nature for what it is, but it’s always a close call. Muttering and cursing is poor consolation.

This morning, in a lovely patch of Mother of Thyme, I found this —

There is hope.

Elen