Our high temperatures don't see 70 degrees anymore. The humidity is high. Our clothes won't dry. I climbed a rock pile, took care of business, and couldn't get back down. Lady had to rescue me. Then, I didn't feel like walking back home, so I wagged my happy mete, planted my paws firmly, and batted my baby browns, signalling Lady to pick me up and give me a ride home.
Last night as I walked Lady, two cows had forgotten to go home before dark. The white one turned around when she saw me and headed for me. Jerry took off running, and Lady and I didn't hesitate too long either! Cows go after small kids and short dogs. We always have to dodge their poop. They are holy here, considered the mother of all life because people drink their milk to live. And other reasons, but that is the main one. The cows have the right of way here. Hey, I yield. Indian cows have a distinctive hump on them. Their horns go every which way. There's a big caramel-colored bull in our 'hood we call "Rock Star," but we haven't seen him lately. He is a big beefy guy who thinks he owns the road. Well, I guess he does here. All cars yield to the cows.
Lady took this up in the mountains.