The broken electric poles were the result of a one-car accident last week. A young man swerved to miss a deer, ran off the road on the opposite side, then came back and left the road again and clipped the electric pole on the right-of-way and ran through the pasture fence. The force when the pole broke and fell pulled on the line to the pumphouse and broke the service pole, at the ground.
The electric company said we needed a street address for the service pole. I called the Postal Service. You can't call the local Post Office, you call an 800 number. It's like trying to get information in Jamaica. They don't volunteer anything and further questions are met with the same answer, "I'm sorry, the Postal Service does not assign house numbers." I finally wrung from her that I should call my 'town hall.' Town Hall? We don't have a town hall, this is a rural area.
I called the tax assessor's office, for lack of a better source and asked if they knew who assigned house numbers. Of course they did, and they knew the telephone number for the Planning Commission as well.
Now the pumphouse at the other place has its own address. I bought numbers to put on the fence post at the gate. Don't send the pumphouse any mail. We're not giving it a mailbox.
We paid an electician to put up the pole and run the wire. Of course, everything was not to Daddy Senior's specifications. He took out the breaker boxes that the local building supply people put off on them because they didn't have the right ones, replaced them with the right ones and got a refund on the substituted parts.
The Scrap Man and Daddy Senior will repair the fence. Scrap Man is young and strong and delighted to work here, learning from Daddy Senior the finer points of doing things right.
We've found the best toys are as big as she is: a gallon vinegar jug, plastic, with a shoestring tied on the handle. It is better than a milk jug because it rolls. I found a nylon harness in a drawer, never used because it was too small for Cur. The box says 'Large' but taken up as small as possible, it's almost a perfect fit. She thinks it makes her itch, and scratches at it with her hind foot.
Our lights went out last night around 10 pm and were back on in the night. When I started to Sunday School this morning, there were three power company trucks with a crew working on a transformer on the pole in front of the pumphouse on the far property. When Daddy Senior went to see what was going on, they were gone.
According to the Electric Cooperative person with whom he spoke on the phone, there was a wreck there last night. They placed a new pole and either put back the old transformer or replaced it. The fence is down, the metal post that marks where the water line crosses the road is bent and of course the old broken pole was hauled away.
The service pole beside the pumphouse is broken at the ground and leaning. We will contact the sheriff's office tomorrow to see who and what about the accident.
It's now official: Buffie has moved into the Dog Hut, complete with thermostat-controlled infrared heat lamp and her beloved teddy bear. Ikey remains up top in the Cat Penthouse. All that getting up in the night to let Buffie out to go potty, middle of night feedings and need for play at 4am was moot last night. She discovered the Dog Hut more or less on her own and promptly claimed it yesterday when the weather warmed enough to play outside all afternoon. Tired, she slept well.
Today they're at it again. Ikey outweighs her, but she plows right in for rough play.
Buffy is a 'doggy dog' - her mother is a small-to-medium black dog with short hair, long skinny tail and floppy ears. Buffy's grandmother was Collie/Chow mix. We will just have to wait to see how Buffy turns out.