It’s the kind of weather that makes one think the solstice will never come.
The kind of weather that makes Appenzeller’s “me first” behavior look
ridiculous. Why go out at all when the gods have created such gloom? Bring on
breakfast-in-bed.
Which is why I haven’t been providing that. To survive, a chicken needs to be
tough. People used to count age in winters. These are fowl of some seven
winters, bracing for the test of another. There is no assisted-living in the
world of a chicken. Well, a little bit of assisting, yes, but they still have
to stand on their own two feet or, in the case of Teddy Roosevelt’s rooster,
one…foot.
It occurred to me that chickens are missing out on is the joy of the survey.
Since they don’t have a phone, I had to do things the old-fashioned way:
face-to-beaky bit. I took as my subject how they were coping with the stresses
of our present moment.
“Do you, for instance, feel the pressure of deadlines?”
Mimo, “What is a live line?”
Pecorino, “Probably those things the crows sit on.”
Appenzeller, “Only noises you hear hereabouts, crow. Very nasty.”
“Would yoga improve your lives?”
Appenzeller, “Is that made of milk?”
Pecorino, “I bet yoga is a kind of cheese.”
Mimo, “Long time since we’ve had cheese.”
“You had some rind this morning.”
Mimo, “Rind, yes, but not cheese, cheese.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Mimo, “Not a good place to keep it. Far better to do some scattering.”
“How about a gym membership?”
Appenzeller, “Who is Jim?”
Pecorino, “Is his ship the big one down there that we don’t go on?”
“The Neverbudge? No. That’s mine.”
Mimo, “Well there’s not a lot of room for another one is there? How big is
Jim’s membership, would you say?”
I couldn’t resist, “Titanic.”
Mimo was about as enigmatic in her response as I’ve ever heard her, “Big enough
to give you a ringing in the ears, then?”
Pecorino, “Tis the season.”
“For what?”
Pecorino, “Ringing in the ears.”
Appenzeller, “We’ve done bringing in the sheaves. Now we’re at ringing in the
ears. Always happens when the squirrels go to sleep.”
“What?”
Mimo, “Everything seems so much noisier when the birds all shut up.”
“Do you miss live theater?”
Appenzeller, “When did she die?”
Mimo, “We don’t miss any beings for very long, you know.”
Pecorino, “Got to get on with the business of finding a sufficiency of
everything.”
Mimo, “Including cheese."
Appenzeller, “Nights arrive quickly nowadays.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “The solstice is upon us.”
They looked instantly delighted, “Where?”
“When? Is the better question.”
Mimo, “Go on then, when will it be this solstice of which you speak, oh god of
kibble?”
“Tomorrow.”
Pecorino, “No kidding?”
“Tomorrow is the shortest day of the year.”
Appenzeller, “Can we celebrate with cheese?”
I said. “How about I hang some bits of string cheese from a tree, in pagan
tradition? And we can sing the re-birth of the sun.”
Pecorino, “Did pagans have string cheese?"
“You sing,” said Mimo. “We’ll just gobble.”
Pecorino, “Could you do something about the rain? I like my cheese on the dry
side.”
Appenzeller, “Start with the underneath bit, is my advice.”
Happy everything to you all. Do remember to smile and say, “cheese."
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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