Pounds of Posterior

Greg bought me a Fitbit.  It's a little device I wear on my person that tracks my steps, activity levels, calories burned and sleep.  All that information is transmitted to my own personal fitness page where I can also enter what I've eaten.  I can clearly see how food and activity directly effect my bottom line...you know, my weight.  It's been a real eye opener.

Yes, moving from a three story house to a one story house had a huge impact on my fitness:  I gained weight.  So, Greg getting me this Fitbit helps track my heath and fitness.  Since I've started using the Fitbit I have return to my normal weight.

I'd like to say that this miracle is due to a change of diet but I can't really say that.  Since I dropped all hydrogenated oils from my diet nearly 15 years ago maintaining a healthy weight is pretty simple.  I've made just a few adjustments to food intake but still get ice cream and organic peatnut butter nearly every week.  It's activity that has made the difference

Nope, it's not the food.  It's Frankie.

Reviewing yesterday's activity level on my FitBit there was this huge spike of activity at 10:00 am.  That was me raking all the leaves and branches from Frankie's yard.  I gotta do this almost every day if there is ever going to be grass in his yard.  I gotta water it everyday, by hand, to get that grass growing.  Unless it rains.  Then I get a day off.

And since there is so little grass in Frankie's yard I have to drive twice a day (2X!) somewhere and pull up grass and weeds enough to fill a plastic garbage bag. According to Fitbit pulling up grass for 30 minutes every day is "high activity."

Does stress count?  This last week I was at this empty lot next to a shopping center pulling up red clover (huge stalks!) when this beat up old Chevy pulled up next to me.  I realize it must be a strange sight but why would anyone what to bother what clearly must be a scavenging homeless woman stuffing grass in a plastic bag? 

This rough old guy leans out this his window and starts asking some really silly questions:  "What are you picking?"  What you gonna do with that clover."  "You're feeding it to a turtle?"

All these questions were quite distracting from my real worry that I am not carrying a gun or even a knife to protect myself.  I could throw the bag of clover at him if he makes one false move but then I would have to pick another bag of clover for Frankie.  See?  I am burning calories.

And if I don't have a bag of clover for Frankie then I have to take him on a walk.  This is where the Fitbit goes through the roof.

The minute that gate opens Frankie trots toward what promises to be an hour of fun.  Fun for Frankie.  All work for me.

Headin ' out is easy because Frankie anticipates a Big Walk and grazing all around the neighborhood.  All the way around the neighborhood is a battle of left-n-right, don't-eat-the-rock, not-in-the-street, don't-eat-the-flowers, not-under-the-car, not-on-my-foot and finely, please-lets-go-home.  That Fitbit is steaming.

But that isn't everything.  There is cleaning the pooped-in pool and poop-filled-cave.  And poop patrol.

Last week Frankie ate a Nut N' Berry Bird Suet Square.  The whole thing.  Including the plastic built in hanger.  Frankie isn't supposed to eat suet.  He sure isn't suppose to eat plastic.  I scoured the yard looking for the plastic built in hanger and couldn't find it.  That means Frankie ate it.  That means I have to pick through every poop until that plastic hanger shows up in his poop.

Yesterday the first of the seed shells showed up in the poop.  No hanger yet.  I will be dissecting poop for a few more days.

It is amazing how much of my day is taken up with Frankie.  What is more amazing is that nearly 60% of my daily activity recorded on Fitbit is directly related to Frankie.  This shapely body is basically build by Frankie, including the aches and ouchs. 

If my husband bought me that Fitbit to help me stay in shape he really needs to go out to the backyard and thank Frankie.

And I have to thank Greg for the Fitbit, for Frankie, and for 20 years.  Today, happy anniversary, my love. 

Down to the Wire

Everywhere it's greening-up.  Temperatures are warm so grass is on an all out burst of spring growth that says, finely, it's spring.  Thank the shelled god.  I don't know if I can take it anymore.

Oh, it's green all up and down our street but not yet in Frankie's yard.  Everyday, every single day, I have to take Frankie on "grazing walks" through our neighborhood so he can graze on fresh green spring grass.

Every single day Frankie reminds me there is no grass in his yard.  Several times. Loudly.  Frankinator style.

If it's cold I get in the car and drive to places where grass and weeds and clover grow abundantly.  There I am, little old lady, hunched over, picking grass next to busy city streets.  I try very hard not to wave my derriere too high at passing cars but I just know everyone is getting an eye full of my rear.  As always I wonder if they think I am homeless. Or mentally unstable.  Well, at least I am not homeless.  

On warmer days Frankie get's walked instead.  Down the driveway, turn East, take a pick of the next two yards.  The first is green with winter rye grass with tiny clovers budding underneath.  Next yard down, the house for sale, is abundant with weeds.

Once we are headed East I give Frankie his pick of yards.  I hold vigil while Frankie munches away.  Occasionally I have to turn him back to the yard or drag him out of the bushes.  Monday was a great day so I really didn't mind spending an hour tidying up the yard (my offering/trade for Frankie's graze time).

Frankie seemed a little extra restless so after the hour is up I led him East down the street so we could walk the cul-de-sac before going home.

Frankie resisted the Eastward direction to the point where I just let him turn around and head home.  He wanted to walk so I let him walk.  Until we got to our driveway.

At our driveway I gave him the turn toward home cue by putting myself between him and the direction West he is walking.  He proceeded to walk over my feet to continue West.

I don't care if he wants to walk a bit more but West is not where we are going because that is a busy throughway street and not a friendly neighborhood.  I grab Frankie by the shell and turn him back toward the drive.

The walk up the drive turns into a battle of wits, strength and guile.  I got in front of him, turned him about and otherwise pushed him up the drive.  Frankie was going West regardless.  There wasn't two steps taken that wasn't part of the battle of direction.

Finely I win because there is a short fence between my house and my neighbor's house and Frankie can no longer turn West.  I can tell he is pissed.

We proceed up the drive all along Frankie is pushing his shell against the fence as he walks.  At the end of the house we will take a left to Frankie's yard.  I jog ahead so I can prop open his gate which only takes a moment.

It only takes a moment.

Frankie is gone.  Holy shells.  I race back and look down the drive.  No Frankie.  About this time Frankie re-appears at the back end of our driveway and his headed into the wooded area behind our house.  Sneaky shelled monster.

Okay, so he wants to walk a bit more.  He won't get far in the wooded area.  It's thick with trees, vines, discarded yard debris, fallen branches:  last time we went there Frankie got stuck between two tree trucks and a very pokey vine.

So I dash to the yard to get a clipper in case I have to cut Frankie free.  Big mistake.  By the time I get back (20 seconds!) Frankie is headed West toward the road.  The good news is that is the most densely planted area and Frankie will never get through.

Thinking that was another error.  When I catch up with him, running into vines and branches I usually have time to avoid, Frankie has found a very steep washed out area about fifteen feet sloping down to the street's grassy area.

Frankie is afraid of heights so he wouldn't dare slide down the slope.

Apparently West trumps all fear and indeed Frankie is going down the slope.  I can't stop him so I look left and right for a quick way out so I can run around and grab Frankie before he get to the bottom.

There is no quick way.  I would have to run back to my driveway, run around the neighbors yard and then down the street where Frankie will have already emerged from the wooded area.

It's one of those moments when sense and sensibility just don't come into play.  It's like I turn in to a complete reckless, non-thinking, adrenaline junkie.  Frankie is halfway down the slope and I drop on my butt to slide after him.

The slope is much more soft than expected being covered with wet pine needles so I just surrender my weight to a forward downward free-fall slide.  Frankie, being a little more cautious than me is easing himself down slowly.  I am catching up with him.

And then I see it.   Three feet in front of Frankie and five feed in front of me is barb wire.

I am an old country girl grown up with horses and critters, and barb wire, as crazy as it sounds, is just a part of that world.   As a slight bit of a girl I could nimble myself though two strands of barb wire without scraping anything.  That's because I'd learned the hard lessons of getting caught up in barb wire and been the victim one to many times.

Frankie is two feet from the wire and I am four feet from the wire.

I think to myself that it's good that I recently got a tetnus shot.  Very fortunate.  Maybe a bit of luck in what is looking really soon to be a tragedy.  

Frankie is one foot from the barb wire and I visually ascertain that he is short enough that he is going to safely slide right under that bottom wire.  What a bit of luck. 

Unfortunately for me, I am moving fast enough on some really slick pine needles that manipulating myself to my feet is going to be impossible.  Maybe a fifteen year old could spring up and dive though the second and third sting of barb wire but I know for a fact that I am not physically capable of such an athletic feat.

Frankie slides effortless under the wire without any notion that he is real lucky that he didn't end up with barb wire up his nose. 

One foot in front of me is the barb wire and I have not come up with a suitable plan of action.  All I can think is Frankie is a few feet away from flat ground and ten feet from the road and he is an idiot around cars and if one gets close he will close up and stay there regardless if he is one foot from the road or three feet into the road.  Really, my job is to be there and get him back to safety.

I don't know where it came from, but the urgency to get to Frankie before he got to the road trumped all common sense.  I laid flat on my back and willed myself under that barb wire.

Momentum moved me forward and really I can't remember the exact moment it happen or what it looked like but I slid right under that barb wire without a scratch.

That's right, this fifty-four year old woman slid down a fifteen foot embankment thick with wet pine straw, under three strands of barb wire and emerged unscathed.  My backside was a bit wet but I lived.

I headed straight to Frankie and turned him North because we were going home and since I don't drink alcohol I deserve chocolate.

I had to withhold all emotions because the very next thing that happen on this busy street is someone came to a screeching halt in the middle of the street, hung out the window, and asked "Is that a turtle?"

I don't know what I looked like:  hair, shirt, shoes, pants all lately sliding down a dirty embankment.  Frankie looks fine.  Really he could care less.  He won!  He got to go West.

Twelve cars full of people, camera phones, Frankie questions, and family photos with Frankie and the trip down the embankment is already forgotten. 

All this because there is no grass in Frankie's backyard.

Yesterday I took all the compost out of our two composters and threw all around Frankie's yard.

Grow grass!  Grow!  Please!

Spring Green

Frankie has a new best friend.  I am not the new best friend because I moved him to Mobile.  Up to this point Frankie is not happy about being in Mobile.  It is going to get better.  Yesterday it got a bit better.  I'm back in Frankie's Top Five Friend List as I did introduce him to his new best friend.

The day before he got to meet our down-hill next door neighbor.  I know our uphill neighbor pretty well and see her a lot.  The lower-on-the-hill neighbor works a lot of hours so five months later I still hadn't met her.  

Frankie and I were walking to a house two doors down the street where Frankie has permission to graze.  It's difficult getting to that house because Frankie has to walk past our down-hill next door neighbor's spectacularly beautiful lawn loaded with tall, bright green, fresh, winter rye grass. 

Frankie wants that grass so much that every time we walk past the green garden of delight house I have a 30 foot scrimmage to keep him out of his desired yard.  I have a very strict rule that Frankie does not graze a yard without permission.

This means that since October of last year Frankie has been disallowed access to the sea of green he so longingly wishes to graze.

Until yesterday.

The day before we were our way back home, I was struggling to keep Frankie on the sidewalk and out of our down-hill neighbor's grass when our neighbor pulls up into her drive way.  I was a bit embarrassed that she witnessed his nibbling on the very edges of her lawn and me desperately trying to drag him back into our pitiful grass-lacking yard.

She waved at us as she got out of her car with purse, jacket and bag in hand and walked over to say hello.

"So, this is the Frankie I've heard all about.  Wow, he is so BIG."

Commence the Frankie questions: how much does he weigh, what species is he, where does he sleep, how long have you had him, were did you get him, what does he eat, and so on.

After the question and answer session (all the while struggling to keep Frankie away from her yard) I apologize to her mentioning that Frankie tries to be be respectful and I work to keep him off her beautiful lawn but he has nibbled some off the sides.

To this she exclaims that most certainly Frankie can graze on her grass, she doesn't mind at all.  Graze away!  Less to mow on the weekends.

The invitation sounds too good to be true so I double check and ask if she is sure he can graze on her lawn.  We get the please, do let Frankie graze!

So the next day, yesterday, I walked the hungry Frankie directly to the green yard of bountiful grass.

Oh my.  Frankie was very happy.

Frankie is in Sulcata Tortoise Heaven

Nom, nom, nom.

I love you, grass.

Frankie enjoying the all-you-can-eat-at-the-neighbor's-spring-grass-buffet

In case you can't see it:  http://youtu.be/biSzVpxLlgE

Happy Spring!

 Really.  Need I say more?

..........

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