I left the house at 8:30 a.m. in a mild snowstorm that was greasing up the roads just enough to make my 118-mile trip to Peterborough, N.H., an invitation to die. Before I'd gone 15 miles, my car had spun out over the crest of a hill and come to rest, miraculously, not wrapped around one of the trees at the roadside. Did I turn around and return home to pig and hearth? No, I stupidly journeyed on. Such was the pull of fiddler Rodney Miller and the annual Snow Ball contradance.
I had no qualms about leaving Violet at home with Kayti, who is 13, and Rex, who is watching 61 disappear into the fog of yesteryear.
Violet seems quite capable of fending for herself, and to my joy, slurped down some gruel before I left. The only reservation I have about her free-ranging in the house concerns electrical cords. Her first couple of days with us, she did seem mildly interested in them, and might have bitten into them had we not been vigilant. Let me rephrase: She might have bitten into ONE. That would have prevented her from ever biting another. Now we unplug any cords within her reach. It puts kind of a damper on reading at the dining table, but then, so would finding a piglet lying on the floor, electrical cord in mouth, with rigor mortis well advanced.
When I got home at around eight, Violet ran to greet me with shrieks of delight and threw herself into my arms.
In my dreams.
Mainly, she basked in front of our heater soaking up the warmth. Until NCIS came on. Can't miss NCIS!
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