riled over my raccoon daycare services. What a heel! What a cad! What a lout! Everyone else seemed so fascinated by baby Mogely; he’s adored and becoming vastly popular. Gumbyman isn’t a true ‘regular’ coffee drinker—he’s lately ingratiated himself upon a somewhat wary and suspicious group of us—most of which get up and leave after a few moments of ‘Cliff Clavin’ rhetoric. Gumbyman knows all. Unfortunately, I heard a few tidbits of one of those ‘back in the war’ stories, which chaps my hide. For godssake people, what is with these men who bemoan their horrible days in ‘Nam—when they have never been there? ! Do they think women fall for this? If only I 
was a fast thinker—I’d whip out a clever retort—but alas, my brain moves too slow. Since Gumbyman (he’s missing all his teeth by the way) is MY age, perhaps I should view him with AWE! “Oh, Gumbyman, how unawares I was that our very own US government had a such a secret weapon—did you, too, train like the child VC’s?? Were you learning to lob a grenade?? My, you must have had some muscles! (It’s obvious he didn’t fare well socially, being deprived from parental care at the ripe old war-faring age of 9. Or war just does that to a pre-teen soldier.)
In KS it’s illegal to trap a raccoon—(furbearer license needed) and we’re not harboring a wild animal; we are helping to rescue an orphan. Mogely is not in a trap or cage. He is free to curl up under the couch or my collarbone or even in my basket of laundry; thus my excuse if the Game 
Warden comes knocking. (Good thing we sent him a ‘get well’ card when he was ill!)
Look at darling Mogely—he follows like a puppy, purring and twittering, and playing just like a real baby. He discovered his back feet! Brigham claims when Mogely fell asleep by my ear I was wearing his tail for a moustache.
Not true, but he’s the reason I haven’t blogged much!
Here we are getting ready to plant Lily of the Valley from Grandma...
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