About 11 o'clock last night, in bed, the wife tells me she's in the mood for brunch.

Now?

No, for tomorrow. She wants another post-Mass brunch at Fat Boys. Okay by me.

So we fast when we get up. Just coffee with the Sunday comics. Saving space for Dave's buffet of three kinds of pig meat (heeler heaven), pancakes, waffles, French toast, and skillet omelets made to order while you watch.

Judging by his hair, tattoos and culinary skills, I'm guessing the chef is an ex-con, but I could be wrong. Matters not, he's good.

Had just finishing shaving when the four of them came back to pick me up after Mass. Five in the youngest son's Subaru is difficult.

Only two cars in the parking lot. This is not promising.

Youngest son pulls into any ol' spot and parks. And gets teased by his mother for not getting closer to the doors. I, on the other hand, am quite pleased. There is hope for the lad.

Dave meets us in the lobby, apologetic and disheartened.

No buffet today. The breakfast chef decided to enjoy the holiday weekend (apparently without Dave's consent). He has to turn away another three potential customers while we are visiting. This has got to hurt.

We drag the boys away from the Area 51 video game, and head to Plan B. Against my wishes.

Nice people run the Plan B buffet, but not well. Only breakfast meat was bacon, dripping grease in the bottom of the buffet buckets. Pancakes that look like they were made with Super Goop (anybody remember that stuff?). Scrambled eggs more grey than yellow.

Disappointed all around. Except for the scones. They were good. Had three (or was it four). Was done with the main meal by the time the decaf coffee arrived (they had to perk a pot, just for me).

Wife was staring into space when I realized what she was doing.

Looking at the decorations?

Yep. There's where all the auction items go... yolks, leghold traps, branding irons and saws and everything else up on the barnwood walls. She mentioned Dave already has the saw blade from his last auction win up on his restaurant wall.

Wife had a definite gardening urge this weekend, raking out the flower beds yesterday and trimming the lawn after our "brunch". Heelers loved an excuse to stay outside all day.

I made another run to the dump (went yesterday also, taking most of the bags of trash that had accumulated since the last run, which was, oh, I think January). Heelers always go on dump runs, to get the dog biscuits from the ladies at the gate. And the stop at McD's on the return trip.

Ever tried to drive and share a chocolate-dipped soft ice cream cone with three heelers?

Can't be done.

Had to pull over to avoid a major wreck. I got the chocolate, they got the ice cream (except for the stuff inside the cone, I get that). Masked heeler has always known how to lick an ice cream cone. Her sister has to relearn every time. Their mother just shoves her tongue straight in, pushing as much ice cream out and down as she gets in her mouth.

Messy.

So today, I forgot the McD's stop. And was stared at all the time by three pairs of brown eyes when we got home.

So when wife had to take her godson in to his new job at a McD's competitor, in the itty-bitty Subaru, the three heelers and I had to go along. And they got their ice cream.

Sometime near five o'clock the wife comes trotting down and rat-a-tats on the door.

Cop at the door.

This is rarely good.

He's spotted some white bird, with a long skinny neck, not a gull or pelican, walking around town. Looks like it might be injured. So off we go to the schoolyard, him in his vehicle, me in mine.

I don't speed, so he gets there first. And a woman is pointing out the mystery bird.

An egret. A cattle egret, no less. Happily wandering the school lawn, pecking at whatever it is finding to eat.

I tell the cop it's an egret.

"What's an egret?"

I refrain from uttering the response on the tip of my tongue. That an egret is a white bird with a long skinny neck, but not a gull or pelican.

My clever answer?

An egret. One of those.

"Are they around here?"

That one is.

"What about the red on its head and neck?"

Breeding plumage.

So I pull into the parking lot to glass the bird and make sure it's okay. Looks fine, it's having a grand time eating whatever it is finding in the lawn. Step...peck, swallow...step, step... peck, swallow. Over and over again.

As I walk out to the street to let the cop know the bird is fine, a truck pulls up alongside, on the road coming from the reservoir and state park.

Driver leans out to tell the cop he needs to check the Camaro behind him. Been weaving all over the road. So I get a brief word in about the bird, and off goes the cop, after the Camaro.

As the wife works and labors in the back yard, the heelers and I wander the raspberry patch. Figuring out what needs to be saved when I till the overgrown patch and start over. And probing with an aluminum spike, trying to find the elk head I buried in there five or six years ago.

Find a bed in the grass. Mighty big cat been sleeping in my patch, right by the blooming sloe.

And then, as I continue probing with my spike, I am surprised to find the poop. A pellet group, in my raspberry patch. A deer has been bedding and pooping in my raspberry patch.

Neat.

Probably one of the two yearling bucks my neighbor called me about on Friday. Just two houses away.