Continuing internet outages. I sit in my room trying to catch it being up so I can read the latest about the awful fire in London. Heat not improving my mood, but on a couple of occasions I've stomped off to bed early and actually managed to fall asleep.
It's ant season. I come upon pools of ants on the sidewalk. The cat dish is full of ants in the morning, adding to the fun of retrieving it; the white cat is tame enough that she usually just nudges it to one side a bit as she devours the contents, but when someone else reached it first or they had a fight over it—one morning I found tufts of white and cream-colored fur scattered across the porch—it may be all the way over under the chair in the corner, or down among the roots of the bushes below.
Today it is flaming hot—our exterior thermometer says 108, the weather service says 100 in the hills in Los Altos, and when we left the house for the weekly shopping trip, the skinny old ginger tom was lying under the front of the car with his feet sticking out.