Bombs away. . .

At breakfast a couple of days ago, the troupe of howler monkeys that shows up a few days a week made an appearance right over the rancho where breakfast is served.

One of the ladies got so excited, she leaped up on the rock wall to get a better look. She hopped back down muy rapido about a minute later when one of the monkeys let fly some scat.

She wasn't freaked out, even though the pile missed her by an inch or so. She was talking about how close it came, and then her husband came over and she told him.

"That will teach you to get right under the monkeys," he said.

"You know what? It reminded me of your favorite fishing lure," she replied, dragging him over to see the evidence that had just missed her.

"That doesn't look like the lure I use," he said. "Though the name is pretty close."

The name of the lure? Monkey Puke. Guess it's good for walleyes in the Great Lakes.

Dad drew the line when his son suggested he bag up the scat for a future fishing expedition.

Jungle mystery. . .

The other day while we were working outside around the grounds, there was a caterwauling that had everyone stumped. It lasted for a few hours, and the closest thing I could compare it to would be an old-time aaoo-gah horn.

Some thought it was a calf in distress, but it sounded like it was high up in the trees.

Personally, I was voting for Bigfoot, having grown up in the Northwest where the critter makes its home.

After a few hours, the mystery was finally solved: It was a howler monkey. Probably an older one, or one with a bad chest cold or two-pack-a-day habit.

Dodging a bullet. . .

Sweetie is the Grand Dame of the Tree House pooches. The vets figure she is aroudn 16 years old now. She was rescued off of the beach at Playa Bejuco by the owners four-plus years ago and has spent her time here at Tree Houses and down at the beach since.

Recently, Sweetie was starting to lag a bit and her stomach area was a bit on the turgid side. The vet suspected cancer, and recommended that she be taken to the university hospital in San Jose. There, it was found that she had cancerous growths throughout her belly. A friend called and was told that Sweetie had two to three months to live.

A pall settled over everyone here at the hotel as Sweetie is a favorite of everyone, including the guests. Plans were made for Sweetie to be taken care of at the beach and here, and one of the owners asked Lucy to follow up with the vet here, just to see how much pain Sweetie was in.

The vet hospital in San Jose must be a busy place, as it took several days for anyone to pick up the phone. Luckily, it was when Lucy was at the vet's office in Quesada, so she handed the phone over to Carlos.

The vet found out that Sweetie did not have three or four months to live. She had more (unless something strange happens); as the vet tech at the San Jose hospital told our friend that Sweetie needed to be brought in in two or three months; NOT that Sweetie had that amount of time to live.

Much celebration ensued and we're looking forward to more time with Sweetie.

Snake alert. . .

Now, this is nothing to get worked up about, though it did cause much mirth here the other day.

Miguel, Chiza and Mark were cutting back some of the foliage at Tree Houses the other day (it grows incredibly fast) when Miguel pointed out a snake to Mark (the original king of wusses when it comes to the slithering serpents). Miguel picked up the critter and assured Mark that it wasn't poisonous. No worries, Mark was fine (and he had a machete in his hand) and it was only about a foot long.

Backstory: About five minutes earlier, Chiza thought it would be funny to use a long branch that had been cut down, as a snake on Mark's leg. Mark did jump, but not too high (he is old), but Chiza got a chuckle out of it.

Forward about 10 minutes: The snake that Miguel had found had been transferred to a banana plant. Chiza came strutting down the driveway when Mark asked him to clean out the dead leaves on said banana plant. Chiza looked at Mark like he was nuts and asked a couple of times what needed to be cleared out. Mark calmly said, just the dead stuff.

Chiza, as he is wont to do, shrugged and reached in to clear out the dead leaves. Then he saw the snake. . . and jumped straight up, turned a lovely shade of red and ran. Mark and Miguel nearly fell over laughing while Chiza flailed away with his machete.

The snake survived (it was non-venomous) though Chiza's machismo took a serious hit.

Now, from our Editorial Dept.

If you see this, it means, there has been a breakdown in communication between the editorial and art department. For the three of you that check in here regularly, you will know what that means.

For those that don't, it means that the art/photography folks have taken another day off, so feel free to chime in with encouragement/derision (nicely, though) for the art department.

The Hunt for the Keys. . . Or the Search for the Keymaster

So, the other day Patricia (who has worked here for 2-plus years and has a wickedly-sharp tongue) announced that she had lost her keys.

OK, we said, no worries, where do you think you left them?

Without question, they are under the security safe in the Toucan tree house, was the pronouncement. Not a problem. Lucy asked the guests if they had come across any keys; they said no. The guests left, Lucy tossed the tree house: no keys.

At this point, we were wondering if we may have to have a locksmith out to replace the locks on the tree houses, as Patricia, Seidy and Darling all have keys to all of the tree houses.

Patricia then amended her story, to say maybe the keys were in the Monkey tree house.

Nope. Lucy tossed that tree house after the folks checked out.

Finally, when Lucy and I were setting up the laundry baskets for Patricia and Seidy to use for the cleaning of the tree houses, the keys were discovered: Under two laundry baskets and a cleaning towel.

Just another day at Tree Houses.

Crashing the gate. . .

Or at least trying to get it going again.

The other morning, I went out for a quick run and noticed that the front gate at the top of our driveway was a bit askance. It was early, I was in a hurry, and didn't pay it much attention.

When I returned from my run, Lucy informed me that the gate was indeed kerfuddled (to use a technical term).

We went up to investigate and sure enough, the doo-hickey was unhinged from the thing-a-ma-jigger (again, sorry for the technical language).

We hauled up a ladder and some tools, and finally got the doo-hickey hinged on the thing-a-ma-jigger.

Success!

Not.

The doo-hickey either was suffering from metal fatigue (or some jughead had rammed the gate) and had broken off from the thing-a-ma-jigger.

Long words short, we were hosed. We called Miguel, on Father's Day, no less, and he agreed to come out and check out the situation later that day. In the meantime, Lucy and I were forced to drive the ATV over the back roads to let guests in and out (forced being a nice way to say that we got to get our inner speed demons on on the back roads) to let folks in and out.

Now, being a tool- and mechanically-challenged fellow, my best guess was that someone had hit our gate and knocked it off the rails and hence the break in the doo-hickey.

I was right; though I didn't know what, exactly, to do about it. Miguel did, luckily, and within an hour (in between Gold Cup soccer matches) he had the doo-hickey welded back up to the thing-a-ma-jigger and the gate was working just fine.