Oh, let’s make certain you can see the headline:
Crews with saws to carve up frozen cows in Colorado
And the explanation under the picture:

Three rangers and three ranchers are on their way up a mountain near Aspen to carve up cattle found frozen in a cabin before the carcasses thaw.

Bill Kight of the U.S. Forest Service says the group started out early Thursday with plans to cut up the remains and scatter them.

Air Force Academy cadets snowshoeing in late March found the dead cattle in and around the cabin near the Conundrum Hot Springs. Rangers believe the cows wandered into the structure during a snowstorm but couldn’t get out.

Forest Service officials were trying to figure how to get rid of the dead animals before they defrost and decompose. They explored burning or blowing up the cabin with explosives but decided to cut up the carcasses instead.

You can look HERE to read the original.

Uh, some of here are so upset we are going to get tipsy.

I am letting my hair grow out in its natural, but presently unknown, color. That would be some mixture of white and grey and feeble light brown. I don’t have to remember that I am doing this. People tell me about it in my family; non-family members avert their eyes. It doesn’t matter to me; heck, I’m short enough most people look right over me. I am a front row group picture person. Always have been.

Actually, lately when someone is talking with me and, of necessity, looking down, I wonder if the straight line of dye vs. roots makes them think of a drafting table, sea-floor spreading or, perhaps, the Prime Meridian or Dan Brown’s Rose Line.

It is not that I don’t want to color my hair; it is just that I can’t seem to really feel like me. One time I walked out with a color that my husband said was me and I felt was me, but now we can’t recreate it – and there is the matter of the “color?” of my roots.

It’s summer; I sweat a lot and wash my hair a lot; I wear baseball caps a lot anyway. I’m going to find out just what I dealing with coming out of my head now and then consider my options. Is there such thing a growing-out grey highlighted color?

I could spray paint my roots. Maybe a nice purple. Then people would know it was me: There goes Crazy AmeliaJake . . . making a statement again. I would probably feel like me.

Lilio is not the only one needing to talk to Rose. She’ll be here tomorrow, thank heavens.