Crummy game, Crotchies lost, etc., but I got a pic of little stormcloud nips (to the right of the light towers) disgorging some feeble moisture. None of the rain came close to making it to the ground, of course, not in this drought-plagued ol' fungustown.
Rockies. Game. Well. Hell, since I'm just throwing pics around all profligate-like, here's one of Billy Bob in his "Dying Hole":
That's what the D-a-W calls it, anyway: his "Dying Hole."
Some other dog actually dug it, but BB quickly took it over. It's perfect for him, nestled as it is in the deep shade of Silver Lace vines and commanding a view of most of the backyard, three backyard gates and the whole south side of the house.
Not that BB ever moves if he detects a disturbance, of course. He just, you know, notes it and goes back to sleep.
About the appellation "Dying Hole." The D-a-W, unfortunately, has this thing she does where she points out far too often that a) Billy Bob is olddddddd; and b) he will probably croak in the not-altogether-unforeseeable furture. Her latest way of reminding me of this is to call BB's hole the Dying Hole, a term she got from the animated movie Madagascar 2: Something, something, in which hypochondriac giraffes use the term for where they go to croak.
I'll quit now.