Buckaroo learned a new word this weekend: Rain. After a late night of GPSing our way to a gas station in Rhode Island where we rendezvoused with Sweet Potato’s dad, we arrived at our destination in Hyannis (I like to pronounce it High Anus, but R frowns upon this) where it began to rain. Not rain, pour. The news peeps were predicting hurricanes for us. 
We dilly dallied around Friday; read, shopped, napped. Buckaroo is enjoying the beach house we rented, a late season deal. He especially enjoys turning the TV on and off and trying to make a break for the wet outdoors.
We took advantage of a short break in the rain to explore the beach, about 150 feet from our front door. Buckaroo did not enjoy the wind and after two minutes announced, “All done!” We dragged him down the shoreline, though, and I couldn’t believe how many shells there were. It was a seagull's buffet. We also saw several (dead, unfortunately) horseshoe crabs, which I think should be called helmet crabs as that’s what their backs resemble. R says they’re not crabs at all, but part of the arachnid family— which makes me shudder violently— whatever they are, we don’t have them in California.
They have a long sword (or tail) out the back, which we thought they used to stake their enemies, but it’s actually a rudder and helps them flip when flopped.
Meanwhile, Sweet Potato is living the high life in the big city-- more about her after she’s been fetched on Sunday.
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