Picking A Bone With Nature

The heat is stifling. I might as well pull the racks out of the oven and put a lawn chair in there and bake myself at 200 degrees for 12 hours. It's as hot as Missi-freakin'-sippi during the basketball camp vacation last year.

Today I returned to T-Hoe after a doctor's appointment, and discovered the temperature reading to be 111 degrees. Yesterday, as I stood beside Poolio for a brief moment to speak to the #1 son, our chickens meandered out of the woods. Just in case any food happened to fly off of me in their direction. Survivor, our very first rooster, a buff and orange and black specimen of prime kitchen-towel-calendar splendor, stopped a few feet away. He laid down. He slowly slipped sideways, with one wing askew.

"What's the deal with Survivor?"

"I don't know. I hate them all. They run at me and I try to kick them."

"You can't do that."

"I don't hurt them. Just get them away. But I'd like to take that little speckled rooster and throw him like a football."

"He attacks everybody. But Survivor's all right."

"Yeah. Survivor is OK."

"Look at him. Is he dying?"

"No!"

"Why's he laying down like that?"

"I don't know. He's breathing, though."

"His eyes are closed. He's not taking a dust bath. There's no dust."

"Maybe he's tired."

"He can't take a nap in the sun. He'll die."

"He's fine. Start over there."

"Oh! He's up! I guess he was just laying on that little bare patch to cool off. It's like mud from where I dump D'Hummi twice a day."

Farmer H tells me that the blackberries are withering from the Hillmomban summer. He knows this, because every day he eats a handful. And complains that the deer have been eating them.

Yes. Farmer H has a bone to pick with nature. Those blasted deer have been eating his berries, when they could have hopped in their deer car and driven to town to buy their own snacks with their deer currency, like sugar-free oatmeal-raisin cookies, or seedless green grapes, or whole-grain Honey Nut Cheerios. How dare the wild fauna deprive him of the wild flora that is so rightfully his!

The Twitchy And Smashy Show

I am looking for a good deal on Scotchgard.

In less than 24 hours, The Pony had broken three eggs, knocked two magazines into the bathwater, spilled a can of Sprite, and dripped juice from a cup of diced peaches onto the rug. I suppose he's going through that awkward phase, the phase where a young boy's limbs are growing faster than his control of those limbs.

Tuesday evening, he went out to collect eggs. We've only been getting 3-4 per day, due to the blast oven temperatures hovering over Hillmomba. Still, that's about two dozen per week. Until this week. The Pony dropped the green and orange woven Easter basket that is the egg collector. He says he used some baby wipes to clean it up. I'm not checking. That's Farmer H's territory.

Later that evening, The Pony decided to take a bath in the big triangle tub in the Mansion master bathroom. He doesn't know how, but two magazines fell off the little gift soap wooden crate on the corner of the tub. He didn't bump them or touch them in any way, mind you, but somehow they defied gravity and leapt off their comfortable perch and into the water. And they hadn't even been looking depressed! The Pony rescued them, and performed CPR by dabbing at them with his bath towel. Then he laid them on the lone remaining magazine. Which of course meant that by the time I heard about it and went to check, I found three soaking wet magazines, which I promptly placed on top of the air conditioner vents.

Wednesday, The Pony knocked over a can of Sprite while reaching for the remote control. He started to wipe it up with his couch blanket, but the #1 son prevented that reasonable act, and sent The Pony hoofing it upstairs for paper towels. Of which he took ONE back down to the basement with him, and had to return again for more, because "...some of the soda dripped onto the rug, but I will get it out with a paper towel."

Shortly thereafter, a little #1 told me that The Pony then upset an individual fruit cup of diced peaches, sending juice onto the coffee table and rug. That's the Toenail Rug, people! The huge oval braided rug that my grandma gave me. It's not like you can toss it in the washing machine. And I don't think you can beat peach juice out of a rug. Or out of The Pony. Even if it's light syrup.

I might need to limit The Pony's forced child labor in my proposed handbasket factory, lest he unwittingly poke holes in them, thus slowing their descent into H E double hockeysticks.

The Thermostatter

I might have mentioned how our air conditioner has been all checked out and declared sound except for having dirt in the coil. Which could no doubt have been cleaned out by Farmer H, had he only cracked open that can of worms. I think he's qualified. That's the kind of thing he does at work. I suppose it's different if you're not being paid for it. Sweet Gummi Mary! I hope nobody expects me to teach my kids something for free!

When I returned home around noon yesterday, the Mansion felt OH SO COOL upon re-entry. I figured it was because of the stifling outside temperature. I went about my business. Last night, my feet were freezing as I watched TV in the basement. I'm always chilly, but not so much my feet. They are encased in socks.

Upon climbing the steps to retire, I noticed that the main floor of the Mansion was cool. I chalked it up to Farmer H finally adjusting those vents in the basement ductwork. I didn't actually see him do it, but stranger things have happened. Since the upstairs is normally warmer than the basement, I picked up the little flashlight sitting on the bookshelf under the thermostat. Just to check on the temperature.

IT WAS 72 DEGREES!

Since May, I have set that puppy on 74. When the repairman was checking out Dirty Old Heat Pump, I noticed that the Mansion was cooler. The thermostat told me the temp that morning was 72. After ditching the professional coil cleaner, I quizzed Farmer H. "I'll go fix it. I set it on 67 so it would run continuously while he was checking it." I saw him change the setting. All weekend, it read a normal 74 degrees when I walked by. How could the thermostat magically set itself on 72 between Sunday night and Monday while The Pony and I were gone?

Because I am a member in good standing with Mystery Inc., I deduced that only one person had access to that thermostat while I was away. The #1 son. I went to his doorway this morning.

"There seems to be a problem with the thermostat. Is there anything you would like to confess before the trial?"

"I set it on 72 yesterday. It was too hot in here. I meant to set it back."

"Oh, so you thought you could do it secretly and I would never know?"

"Whatever."

Yet another successful case under my belt. I will spare you the lecture on how a person who does not pay the electric bill should not adjust the air conditioner settings.

Let Your Fowl Flags Fly

Last night/this morning at 12:03 a.m., I took it upon myself to change the baby. That is a euphemism for dumping my new dehumidifier, named D'Hummi, because, as I told the #1 son, it is as time-consuming as taking care of a newborn.

During a short break in the action during Big Brother After Dark, I figured it was better to get it over rather than wait until D'Hummi cried that he needed changing. I toted D'Hummi's pail of pure basement atmosphere water through Farmer H's workshop and out the basement door by Poolio. This task hasn't been too bad of late, what with the full moon. I can see the giant flat creek rocks that Farmer H scattered as stepping stones to Poolio's wooden stairs.

As I turned back to try and channel my inner goat so as not to trip on those uneven rocks, I spied something out of the corner of my eye. Over by the goat/chicken compound. It looked like a string of Tibetan prayer flags at an Everest base camp.















Since none of the Mansion-dwellers have notified me of their intent to scale the summit, I knew this was an erroneous perception. I looked closer. I squinted. There was definitely something along the entire side of the chicken pen fence. But I could not see well enough to figure it out. Farmer H left this morning before I had a chance to ask. I left with The Pony at 8:30, before the #1 son had arisen. When I called him around 11:00, I asked if there was something on the chicken pen.

"Yes! He's hung a bunch of colored towels along there. I don't know why. It looks stupid!"

"We do seem to be getting hillbillier and hillbillier by the day."

"I know. I hate those animals. They come running at me when I try to walk through the yard."

"I don't so much mind the yard. It's the chicken poop on the porch that gets to me."

"You need to tell him to get rid of those animals."

I agree. Don't think I haven't tried. Farmer H has selective hearing. But this evening, when I saw the glorious towel art that adorned the pen, he admitted that he hung them. "We had a leak in the camper. I mopped it up with towels, and I hung them to dry." He then plucked the stiff water-wipers off the fence, squeezed them into a bundle, and stuffed them in the back door of the camper.

I can never be sure what he's up to. But if he invites you to go camping, bring your own towel.

Suited For Each Other

I made a loaf of homemade bread today. By homemade, I mean, I bought the Country White mix, and I poured it into my Bread Man and pushed the 'start' button.

The Pony and I are kind of like Jack Spratt and his wife. The Pony can eat no crust, and I can eat no bread. So I push out the bread and give it to him, while I enjoy the ring of crust.

Tonight I told him, "I love the crust. It's so crusty!"

And The Pony replied, "I love the bread. Because it's so...bready!"

Goodbye Kitty

Farmer H thinks the neighbors took our cat. I don't know how he knows this. He's not exactly a member in good standing of Mystery, Inc. But he could do a bang-up job repairing the Mystery Machine if necessary.

She's a long-haired cat, mostly white, with some yellow and gray calico patches. It's not that I begrudge the neighbors glomming onto a free pet at my expense. Even though we did pay her neutering bill and feed her for the past seven years. I'm sure they will give her a good home.

The issue is that she's a sentimental cat. The boys got her as a kitten, from an ex-colleague of mine. We drove to her house, climbed up into a playhouse that acted as nursery to two litters, and The Pony chose her specifically for her gray toe. He was only six years old.

That fluffy kitten was a real hellcat. She hated everybody except me. The first time Farmer H met her, he reached his hand toward the back of the pet carrier where she huddled, refusing to come out onto the porch. "Hey there, kitty." She snarled and took a psychotic swipe at Farmer H's arm. "Huh," he said. It was the start of a rocky relationship. Every time she saw him, she gave him a wide berth, and hissed for good measure. The Pony named her Snuggles.

We acquired her brother from a different mother on the same day. A short-haired, orange tiger-stripe named Genius by the #1 son. The two felines were inseparable until Genius disappeared one Labor Day weekend. We have no idea where he went or how he returned, but when he showed up a month later, he cried to come in the house, and stood on his back legs while grabbing the doorknob with his front paws. To no avail, because we don't let our cats in the house. Maybe that's why Snuggles has forsaken us.

Once Genius returned, Snuggles wanted nothing to do with him. Gone were the days of entwined sunbathing on the back porch. Of purring, kneading, grooming companionship. She acted like he was a stranger. It didn't help that we rescued three kittens dumped by our mailbox row the next spring. Snuggles avoided them like the plague. I was her only friend. She loved to curl up on my chest and rub her head under my chin while I sat on the porch.

In latter days, those three mailbox cats ganged up to torment Snuggles mercilessly. She never crossed an open area without an escape plan, whether it be under a wooden play set or inside a box built as a cat house or on top of a garden shelf. She could fend off her enemies from such strategic positions. Sometimes she didn't make it, and the roving mob left wads of her long white fur to blow across the planks like hairy tumbleweeds.

Now she's gone. Perhaps, one day, to return.

Chickens Know No Shame

Did you ever spot your toy poodle laying on the kitchen floor, and start calling him excitedly while waving his favorite vanilla-smelling blue rubber ball, then bounce it and roll it under the dining room table? Because in case you didn't, I imagine that little black dog would start spinning his clicky-toenailed feet like a cartoon in an effort to gain traction on the vinyl floor and chase that ball. Just sayin'...

For three of the past four mornings, I have been awakened by a galloping beast and a squawking chicken right outside the French doors that lead from my bedroom to the back porch. The sound of scrabbling canine toenails reminds me of my childhood dog, Buster, trying to find Ball. It is quite irritating to salute the morning with such turmoil. At first, I blamed the dog.

This morning, in that state that is not quite sleep, and not quite wakefulness, I heard a tapping. Something gently rapping. Tap tap tapping just outside my bedroom door. I sat up, bending only at the waist, creepily, in fact, much like Michael Myers behind Jamie Lee Curtis after she thinks she has killed him in the upstairs bedroom after he attacks her in the closet in the original Halloween. That was the sound of a chicken pecking. Pecking at dry dog food in a metal dog dish on the back porch.

That darn chicken was the instigator. What self-respecting dog can lay idly by while a chicken invades his food bowl? Not the Mansion dogs, that's for sure. And chickens do not belong on the porch. She deserved what she got: the loss of a pillow-full of feathers. I know which chicken, too. Gray feathers. Bald chicken.

I still yelled at the dog, though. You can't yell at a chicken. They know no shame.