Knife's Edge.

Classic 2740X summertime afternoon yesterday: good storm—complete with warnings—off to our north, sliding south. Big. Lightning. Hail. Wind. We could hear the thunder off to our north-northwest as it was coming in. After it split in half and went by on both sides, we could hear the thunder to the southeast and southwest. No rain here. None.

Hotter today. We're 94 degrees in the shade of the front porch at quarter of two. And cloudier today: Storms are already starting to popcorn up on the radar, and the clouds look promising off over La Vieja Nueva's roofline. But here is Carolina August: promising means nothing. Promising means one more way to hope for something—anything—to cut the heat. Promising means it'll probably rain somewhere nearby. But as for your house, your agricultural concerns? Good luck. Roll dice. Flip coins. Lay ten shiny things out for the Toad to look at and wager on which he'll notice first. Put those results in a bowl of chicken bones and rattles and see what you learn.

We are the day after the Toad's two-month vaccinations here at 709. The Toad is not quite back up to his fighting weight on the heels of that, and on the heels of last night's performance by that selfsame immunized Toad, neither is the forecast. But: while the Toad slept off his polio hangover this morning, the chief meteorologist and severe weather expert did in fact head out back to commence the seaming of the drywall, and what little result there is so far—we are in the test run stage back there of a spackle/joint compound experiment learned off one of the interwebs—isn't utterly disheartening. It's a little heartening, even. Hopes are running medium-rare. There is a 40% chance of hope, mainly after two o'clock this afternoon and through this evening. A good chance tomorrow, as well. So: break out your fiberglass tape, friends and fans of DIY. Find your ten-inch drywall knives. Feather your edges. Always, always feather your edges. Post-shots, the Toad had a hell of a time feathering his edges. But he's edging back toward feathering today. Things are looking promising, even here, even in August, even headed for 100 degrees—or they were until just now, when the mail came, the dog went to DEFCON 18, and the Toad, who had been napping his afternoon through, woke up to see what the hell the dog thought we all ought to do about whatever emergency is befalling us right now, and whatever one might be headed our way next.