Roadkill?

No, of course it isn't. Sure looks like roadkill, though, doesn't he?

Our weather forecast was for more filthy, hateful wind, but sunrise came calmly. Bernie and I took the dogs and trudged me around a couple blocks to break up the rust in my joints, and then we sat in the sun on the brick patio out back.

In the shade, we needed sweatshirts over our shirts and undershirts, but in the sun ... we shucked down to our undershirts and basked. I went to the garage to get something, and outside the garage door, in the dirtiest dirt around, found Fourmyle sacked out on his back in the sun himself.

When I got back with the camera, he hadn't moved a fraction of an inch, though I had watched to make sure he was breathing before I left him the first time.

The weather forecast was correct; the wind is so nasty out there that the gusts make the garage door bend inwards (I'm in the studio today) with loud creaks and pops and "Wooooooooo!" sounds in the tiny gaps. Nevertheless, I remember the sweetness of drinking in the sunlight this morning ... and so does Fourmyle.