The Writer, Wolves and the Woodsman

  So it got a little dark on an already overcast and rainy day — at least here. Boo-hoo. My Door-dash order still arrived, and the Wolves didn't go full Cujo .  We're likely not going to die in an 1812 style earthquake.  Or flat, immovable plane-shake. I digress. Take care. Writer

Yes, he shot many arrows into the pond.  “We need some targets.” He said. Arrows on a log. Like Ants on a Log, but better. “You mean other than the waterfowl, turtles and random neighborhood cats on logs?” I replied.  “Yeah, like actual archery targets from a store or something.” “Wouldn’t it just be cheaper to shoot at the red squirrels ? I mean, they’re plush, and easy to see.” I said. “They’re not stationary.” He replied. “True… true-ish?” I agreed. “And I can’t kill your Yard Dogs so to speak, (deer) because they’re out of season.” He interjected.  “I’m aware. So, we’re relegated to buying sunfish filets and scrumptious lamb legs from the local guys?” Said my pragmatic mind. “And archery practice at dusk…” He said. “Okay. I love you.” And we embraced.