Winter is Coming


I have been binge listening to Game of Thrones on Audible.
"What's that Louisa?"
Hang on. My sister is interrupting.
She wants to know why I am just now listening to a book which was made into a television series that ran for eight years ending in 2019.
"Streaming on a smart tv is nothing but a bunch of spinning here, Louisa. And you know it."
Anyway, I took a break from my story since I had not been able to find a piece in my jigsaw puzzle through several rapes, a couple beheadings, and too much milk of the puppy.
It is also my turn to host Thanksgiving, so.
That is when I spotted it.
I was washing a window and once I could see through the thing, I noticed a tree out back with a bite taken out of it.

"Sven!" I hollered.
"This one should last them the winter," he said calmly. "Looks like it will land just about right."
We were standing next to a tree I had failed to paint.
After a long summer of a game of dens my sweet Sven and I threw up our arms and waved little white flags.
"Let's just wait and see what happens," is what my husband had said. "They have to be satisfied at some point."
Our concession came after many attempts to secure our castle and the driveway leading to it.
We wrapped metal sheeting around trees. We set up a spy camera. We paid for an expensive professional blasting out of a culvert. I bought a stylish set of fly-fishing hip waders. We placed a fence inside the pond in front of the culvert. We enjoyed power washing the dammed-up fence in front of the dammed-up culvert inside the pond. We reclaimed the pier and celebrated and lost it again. And lastly, I learned that painting trees is not as fun as it sounds.
We did our best.
Well, as best as summer in Wisconsin permits with all its lures to go and do anything but.
Our opposers had more time and more money and the whole thing was gerrymandered.
But we threw in the towel and peacefully stepped aside.
Mr. Cleaver has not shown himself since early one morning when Sven had to wait for him to cross the driveway. Sven was on his way to town for a cup of coffee to start his day and Mr. Cleaver was headed to his den to end his night.
"Was he afraid of you?" I asked.
"How would I know?"
"Did he run?"
"I don't think beavers can run."
But one does not need to see this big furry guy to appreciate all his efforts for the love of his life who must be one hell of a woman with an appetite to match.
His damming of the culvert is spectacular beyond belief.
The pond has risen to new levels. The section of the pier that had once been sitting on land is now seen floating all over the place.
And I am learning which trees I failed to protect with that bucket of paint and sand.
According to Game of Thrones, winters can last ten years.
Holy crap.
I only have two hours and thirty-five minutes left of the story.
And I just started a new puzzle.
Naturally I am feeling a little panicked.
The longer the summer the longer the winter.
We had pretty good weather.
Mr. Cleaver must have sat on his wide derriere an entire winter and watched that series wherever he resided before invading a land and a pond without a signal strong enough to pull in such luxuries.
Sven and I hope the Cleavers will rest now that there is snow on the ground.
They deserve it.
We could all use a break.
I believe in hope.
Especially when hope is all that is left.
Come next spring, maybe the Mrs. will cross her arms, slap her tail and be like, "That's it! I am not about to raise these bastard puppies of yours without the Disney Channel, in this black hole just outside Harmony Grove, while you run around all night long chopping down trees and damming up the place!"
Speaking of hope.
Audible just suggested my next read.
Book two, A Clash of Kings.
Thirty-seven more hours of entertainment.
Hang on.
Just in.
Book three is available and I have credits.
"What's that Louisa?"
Hang on. She is talking again.
She says this is really old news.
"Well, not to me!"
Thank God.
Winter is coming.
Bring it on.


For more Millie and Sven beaver adventure stories click above on The Cleaver Family.

Thanks for reading.

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