I hate being photographed, but I love the picture the Dogtor took of me, above, a spontaneous, real moment where we were working in the garden (or, um, I was watching the Dogtor work), and I was trying to convince Jack to sit with me on the table.    The night the Dogtor took that photo is the last night we saw Greta, my first cat (though she isn't in the photo, she was sunning herself in the driveway).  She has been missing for three days now, and she has never missed more than one meal before.  

Though I am absolutely gutted by her disappearance, I will let Frasier lighten the moment for you, as she did for me:  "Mom - stop calling for Greta.  She probably got eated up."

I'm not going to eulogize her yet, but things are looking grim. 

We bartered for two hens from a dear friend, and they are beautiful additions to our coop, and timely.  This morning the Dogtor noticed one of our Barred Rock hens wasn't well, and we started the day with realizing that we'd need to put her down.  I went in to the barn to say my goodbyes; I'll spare you the details, but she was clearly suffering, shuddering with pain, and tucked her face into her wing.  I thanked her for all the eggs she had provided for my family.  I didn't hold her because I thought it might stress her out, but I wanted to.

It's one of those weekends where the risk of owning so many animals becomes apparent - you love so many, and you have to let so many go, and make peace with it as best you can.