In Heat

More belated poppies are blooming, but the jasmine blossoms are quickly withering. There is now far more brown than white on the hedge. As August will soon be here, this is unsurprising, but the absence of surprise doesn't make the jasmine's decline any less sad. Soon the nights will smell only of dry grass and, if we are unfortunate, brush fires, and the sweet fragrance of the flowers will be gone until next year.

The approach of August makes the heat unsurprising, too. It's making me want to nap again (yes, I once again forgot to make coffee early enough in the day.) Worse, Portia is clearly in league with summer. She is on my lap trying to purr me to sleep. My eyelids droop, and then my head droops, and then I snap back to consciousness, endangering my neck with the sudden movement.

If Portia thinks she gets to keep the house for herself if I fall from my chair, hit my head on something hard, and die, she should think again. I'll leave nothing to a cat with murder in its heart!