David,
Often feeling almost out of eggs myself, I am especially sympathetic
toward your chickens. My own chicken-dreams never came to anything, not
having been able to move out of my chickens-prohibited neighborhood, but
I do have dogs and can't imagine being without them . . . well of course
I am without the ones that passed away in the past -- in the days when
Susan said she was too sad to get another, but after a bit I got one
anyway and so it went. In these days it seems I anticipated my current
condition by having gone on a hiking-stick frenzy years ago and now have
quite a few that were undersized and now work quite well for limping
about. And in the case of dogs I thought I might need one for my waning
years, though I didn't feel any waning at the time of the purchase, and
selected the Irish terrier; which was probably an error in that she was
probably the culprit that sent me spinning down the stairs and onto my
right knee cap. But on the upside the doctors after extensive testing
found that there wasn't anything else wrong with me; which means that if
I can avoid another fall-over, I could conceivable out-live all my
present dogs and so find myself in your chickenless situation, so to
speak. I might have said "your dilemma," but in the last discussion
where this was alluded to you seemed fixed in your resolution that this
would be your last batch -- your "Hereabouts" would presumably be tidied
up, published as a sort of epitaph after which you would perhaps wile
away your own waning years before the limelights you alluded to in
another message.
I am quite fixed in a different direction -- where my dogs perform
functions somewhat like legitimate service dogs. For example, I can't
hear the door bell when an Amazon delivery person is dropping off a
package, but my dogs can. Jessica will hear it first and take the
barking lead. Then too, if a serial killer (all the rage in the Western
world nowadays) were to break into my house bent upon adding an old-man
notch to his serial-killing device, Jessica, Ben and Duffy (or whatever
dog I might have later on) will create a ruckus. Even if they don't
actually attack him (and none of them seem likely to attack anyone, but
they could surprise me) they would give me a chance to limp over to one
of my guns and threaten him with it, after which he would presumably run
off. But then (as tangents go) I would probably make myself a cup of
espresso and consider whether to report him to the police. I wouldn't
like them rummaging through my guns, most of which were purchased before
various gun-control laws were enacted. Then too I have a knife
collection and no doubt several of my knives violate California laws.
And so I'd perhaps rationalize: Perhaps this was only a fledgling serial
killer and his experience in my study will convince him that he isn't
very good at it and needs to take up something else.
. . . I smell my lunch boiling over a bit down stairs; so I'll end here.
. . .
Lawrence
On 5/24/2020 12:35 PM, david ritchie wrote:
Mimo wanted to talk. “If someone calls you ‘too bossy,’ it implies, does it not, that there’s a right amount of bossy. How would I know when I have arrived there?”
I reflected before answering. It has been a week of overcast skies and rain. We all have had weeks of stress and social distancing. Bound to take a toll. “Think of it this way,” I suggested. “There may not be a right way to live, but there are lots of ways that will cause everyone to go, ‘No. That’s not what we want.’”
Mimo persisted, “Of course. Crows every evening, ‘No, no, that wasn’t a perfect landing, go around and try again. Takes them at least an hour to put themselves to bed. We manage in about three minutes. Neighbors!”
I thought maybe I’d slip in a little history, “I grew up in an era of High Tea and ‘what would the neighbors think,’ and ‘always put others’ needs before your own.’ Today we live in the era of High Dudgeon. ‘My needs first and always.’”
“Well,” said Mimo, “some needs are more important.”
The chickens seemed unusually interested in football this week, a game they have never seen and can have no knowledge of.
“Can we play?” was a question from Appenzeller. Apparently migratory birds are all a’twitter about how exciting it is that the games in Germany are being held in empty stadia. It’s one thing to fly over and land on some roof where the view is good; it’s totally different to have your pick of perches. No humans between you and the action on the field. “Sure,” I said, tossing her a whiffle ball that Hamish picked up on a walk in the woods. She ran away. “That’s how you play,” I shouted after. Hamish came bounding up, “Play?"
One of the games I sometimes play with a Freshman writing class is seeing who can write the longest, grammatically correct sentence. The point is to demonstrate that there’s more to life than simple, declarative sentences, bullet points and Tweeting. So, having set the chocolate croissants out to proof, or whatever it is you call them rising like grumbling peasants who will get their comeuppance in the morning’s fire, I poured myself a finger of Trader Joe’s ten year-old single Highland malt—for I am more than ten years old and briefly single, my wife having left town with a cousin to visit Sisters—note the capital letter; your meaningful reward for having learned all that stuff about grammar and meaning—I set out to write not the longest sentence in the world but something that would be at home in one of those doorstop nineteenth-century novels. I believe I have solved the mystery of what happened to Pecorino’s eggs.
That there were many red herrings and blind alleys I think we can take as appropriate to the genre of tale. At one point I thought if I cleared the holly birds planted and all the hopeful blackberry shoots, and cut down those two trees that grow like weeds, I’d find beneath the underbrush a pile of eggs. So I did the clearing and found precisely nothing.
There came a breakthrough. I took out the garbage in preparation for the Wednesday’’s pick-up, noted that Pecorino was missing from the group pestering me for a handful of weeds, finished my task, bolted the gate, found Pecorino hurrying from the coop. An hour later I went in with plastic to kneel upon and a garden rake. Sure enough, from the wood chips beneath the sleeping area, and a nest-like depression that E. and I had both checked last weekend, I raked one single egg of completely different shape from Mimo’s. So where were all the rest?
The answer came from another investigation of disappearance. On Friday I again checked under the sleeping area and found…Pecorino.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering what you are doing?”
“Thinking about the weather. I’m done now.”
Up she got. Off she went. Nonchalantly.
No eggs.
I’m pretty sure that the answer is she gets the urge to lay, but she’s almost out of eggs.
Between rain showers I pulled some weeds out front. The chickens came rushing up to the gate. “Weeds!” They’re happy that melons are back, and the supply of crumbs has not diminished, but fresh weeds are high on their list of delights. There are none out back. “These are the times,” Appenzeller was heard to mutter.
I filled in, “That try the souls not only of chickens. Are you acquainted with Thomas Paine?”
“Don’t talk to me of Paine,” said Mimo, miming wiping her foot across a fevered brow. “The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot…Why the heck can’t we get some sunshine. This rain is getting on my tits.”
“Tits?”
“It’s metaphorical.”
I thought it might be time to change the subject, so I raised what had been bothering me: the paucity of bees.
“Shouldn’t there be more at this time of year? We’ve had them nesting under the house and I don’t like that, but usually the foxgloves are over-run with bees of many types. When I was looking for Pecorino’s eggs, I noted considerable hum, so they’re around. Maybe it’s just the rain. What have you heard?”
“Nothing good,” said Appenzeller. “There are at least four insect traps the smaller birds have noted. I think everyone’s waiting for this Asian Hornet to show up.”
“I’m told by reliable sources,” said Pecorino, “that the bees have a tendency to act like refugees, packing up and leaving before the advance of killer hordes.”
“So we’re experiencing France after the Phoney War?”
Mimo, “The funny war, yes.”
“Shall I tell you about a funny war? I’ve been reading about the Israelis at the end of six days, invading the Golan Heights when they said all along that’s not what they wanted. One front at a time…do nothing about the Golan so that we can win in the south. Dayan was very much against any plan to tackle Syrian forces. And then what happened? A sudden change of mind.” They looked restless. “I /am /coming to a point.”
Mimo, “I was beginning to wonder if I should try to lay tomorrow’s egg today.”
“What made it funny was when the Syrians were in full flight Israeli commanders dressed cooks and clerks in combat gear, gave them flags and told them to scoot up hills to claim this or that bit for Israel. Quite farcical.”
Appenzeller, “And?”
“And the Soviets were beginning to worry about Damascus falling, so they put considerable pressure on all parties to close the war down within hours. The Israelis agreed to sign papers at such and such hotel at three pm local time. Since the Syrians were retreating so rapidly and very few people were getting hurt, the Israelis wanted to put off the actual end on the war as long as possible. So they agreed to meet at the wrong hotel.”
Pecorino, “Deliberate misdirection?”
“Bought them an extra couple of hours. Plausible error. 'Hello? You’re at such and such hotel and where are we? I’m afraid there’s been a mix-up. We’ll jump in the car right away.'”
Mimo, “History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.”
Pecorino, “He was Jewish too, Marx.”
Mimo, “What do you mean, ‘as well?’”
Pecorino, “Well, we’re Jewish aren’t we?
Mimo, “Maybe we’re Buddhist?”
Pecorino, “My general aim is to avoid getting on anyone’s tits.”
I thought I might help, “I don’t think any tit ever got on anyone’s tits; they’re really quite lovely birds.”
Appenzeller, “Not as lovely as chickens.
All, marching up and down, “No, no, no, no, no.”
“That’s the way, girls, finish on a positive note.”
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
