For six years, I’ve walked past this house whose past-prime quincho roof has reminded me of a mangy dog. It’s finally getting groomed, to stretch a simile. It appears the back half is nearing completion, and the facing side is being torn off.
What’s the deal with quincho? Glad you asked. Denise (“day-NEE-say”) has answered your question exhaustively (and perhaps exhaustingly; we have different styles) here.
Gita (origin Dogita, “little dog”), on the right, finds it a challenge navigating the boardwalk to the beach with continual flank assaults from the enthusiastic puppy.
Settled down, they have friendly a tug-of-war with a stuffed bear. Which, ironically (or not), was a gift from a cleaning lady to the third, and smallest, dog Bandito, the Shit-Zoo (Syd will appreciate this spelling).
However, the irony—or synchronicity—in this current destruction is that my wife took a shovel yesterday to remove the body of a dead possum (comadreja) from the road, and threw it in that container.
So the little critter got a proper cremation.
Well, almost. From the attention our garbage-hound Gita gave today, apparently there are some Cajun tidbits still edible by her standards (shared by almost no other living thing besides ants and bacteria).
This is what happens when you stick the bottom of a head of bok choy / pak choi in dirt and let it go. It didn’t make another head, but we did harvest quite a few leaves before it bolted. The bees love those flowers. Next: collect seeds ….
Those are heads of lettuce either side of it, from seedlings courtesy of our friends Don and Jan.