Monkey Time

Bad picture of a monkey. Oh wait. That's not a monkey. That's my grandson.
Who has already, just in the past hour, figured out how to get onto my side porch by himself, turned on the bathroom heater, climbed on every table in the house, fed the goats and chickens, had a snack of almonds (he gave the Cheerios to the dogs), torn up the kitchen, told me he doesn't love me anymore, spoken with his grandfather on the telephone, patted all the dogs, pretended to wash the dogs, kissed me once, wiped down the floor, hearth and sofa in the Glen Den with a piece of yellow tissue paper like a professional, demanded powder on his belly, made me laugh about twelve times, got into the recycle, held up a bottle and as clearly as anything said, "Beer!" (oh my) and is now sitting across from me, patting the table and grinning.

It's a busy day.
And such a good one.