It has been wet lately. I know I’ve mentioned the copious summer precipitation more than once, and maybe you think I’ve succumbed to hyperbole, dressing up a few showers in the literary garments of great tempests, but by Thor’s bitty ball-peen, when I say “wet,” I mean wet.
The grassy roadsides, which usually by August resemble the tawny pelts of shaggy beasts or else the scorched stubble of a rural hamlet that has fallen victim to raiders, this year are lush and verdant. It even rained some more over the weekend! Some of the trees have been tricked into a second flush of tender growth. The giant ragweed is living up to its name. Toads abound.
Not all of the damp is outdoors. The humans’ house is three decades or so old and, as one might expect, it has its creaks and crotchets. A few of the windows, when assaulted by wind-driven rain, will leak a bit. The humans usually keep a rolled up towel in these north-facing windows, just to soak up whatever forces its way past the seals.
Enter the feline. The aged, opinionated feline who has her own creaks and crotchets. The sun-worshiping daughter of Bastet and Ra who stretches her furry length all along the windowsill on the hottest afternoons so that she can fairly bake with her belly plastered against the glass. The pushy feline who has (at my suggestion) shoved the towel out of the bedroom window in her quest for maximum glass contact.
So now, the humans have discovered, there has been a bit of leakage. There is every evidence of a bit of mildewish damp on this windowsill and today, to their horror, they spotted this:
It has deflated a bit, but I am reasonably certain that that is a mushroom. Now, I am no mycologist, so correct me if I am wrong, but spongeous fungi belong outside of the house, yes?*
Methinks I foresee some bleach, some scraping and sanding, some wood-filler, some caulk, and some new white paint in the near future.
Add it to the list.
*Or, if inside the house, decently and prudently confined to pizza.