I've got some kind of bug: achey joints, sick stomach, headache--there is a lot of woe is me going on over here. Last night I told Greg that just in case I died during the night, I wanted him to remember how much I loved him. (I'm really not usually a drama queen, I just haven't felt this much like donkey poop in a very long time.) So, with all my poor-baby woe and misery, I had a hard time getting comfortable and didn't fall asleep until around 1:00. Of course, Greg's snoring woke me at 2:42. I have no room to complain here: I snore too. The kids tell me that's how they always knew when it was safe to sneak out at night--they'd simply listen for Mom to get her snore on. But Greg, right next to me, doesn't even hear it. He's the lucky one. Thieves could ransack the house, kidnap me and set fire to the bed for good measure, and Greg would blissfully snooze right through it all. I kid you not. Well ok, maybe a little--but just about the fire part.
Our neighbors recently adopted a donkey. As I understand the story, they're keeping him for another neighbor because their neighbors complained about his braying. Well, this morning, true to his reputation, Donkey got his pipes going at 4:59. I'm not complaining. Remember? I'd been up since 2:42; I was glad for some company. Here's the riff: He launches with a long, mournful, kind of lumber town lunch-whistle imitation, and then he completes the aria with some good ole, traditional hee-hawing. I honestly like him: His bray is certainly unique, maybe a little pitchie, dawg, but not annoying. It's very country. Makes me feel rugged. Yesterday afternoon, I asked my neighbor whether our boy's a mule or a donkey (yes, there is a difference) and she said all she knows is that he's a jackass. Obviously, his old neighbors agree.