OK, this animal business is getting
out of hand. I’m beginning to feel like Eva Gabor on “Green Acres.” I was
raised in the city man! Detroit!
Phoenix! Chicago!
I get allergic smelling hay!
But The Lovely Mrs. Taylor has
decided we’re going to be farmers. Small-scale, petting zoo type farmers, but
still. Farmers.
First it was the cats, which was OK.
Lots of what I think of as “normal” folks have cats. We started with two. We’re
up to seven, which is where it’s going to stay. Probably.
Then this spring came the chickens.
Eight of them. Against all odds, they all survived chickhood and are now big,
clucking morons racing around my back yard eating bugs and copiously
fertilizing the lawn.
Maybe it’s because I feed them treats
more often than I should, but the birds love me. If I’m outside, they follow me
around like Indians trailing Gandhi to the Arabian Sea to make salt. If I could
get them to hold still for my sermons, I might set myself up as an avian
prophet of some sort.
Then last week we added bunnies. Just
two of them. But they’re bunnies, and
you know what bunnies do.
I’m pretty sure the addition of the
rabbits has slaked Mrs. Taylor’s thirst for wildlife, at least for the moment. She’s
mentioned the possibility of goats, but she can’t follow through on that until
I build a shelter and corral of some sort and I plan to drag my feet on that
one until hell freezes over, if necessary.
Still, despite my nauseating whining,
I’ll admit I’m actually kind of digging the whole farm thing. The critters are
for the most part fun, amusing and easily cared for.
But every once in a while…
I went out this morning to perform my
perfunctory farm chores: letting the chickens out of their coop, feeding and
watering the bunnies, muttering at the cats underfoot to get the hell out of my
way, already. The usual stuff.
The morning was warm and sunny, so I
didn’t bother to close the sliding door that leads out to the deck. The
chickens exploded from their coop, anxious to be about their business of
pooping everywhere imaginable but mostly on my lawn furniture. The bunnies gratefully
accepted my ear scratching and treats of dried Timothy grass.
The cats somehow managed to
simultaneously ignore me and get in my way, as always.
A typical morning here on the farm.
It wasn’t until I was back inside,
sitting down to write this column (which was originally going to be about
something else until this happened) that I noticed something was amiss.
I heard rustlings and bangings and
whirrings and hissings, all coming from Mrs. T’s studio on the other end of the
house. Cats working out their elaborate feline hierarchy, I figured. I ignored
it. Until I heard the crash. Something big falling over.
I didn’t want to deal with it, but
Mrs. T was at the office, so it fell to me.
Walking through the kitchen, I was
nearly trampled by two cats – and a chicken
– racing through the house at top speed. Let me repeat that: there was a
chicken in my house!
The cats, apparently upset the birds
were invading what they consider “their” turf, had decided to roust the already
panicked fowl.
Remember that scene in “Rocky,” the
one in which he has to catch a freaked out chicken as part of his training
regimen? Yeah, it’s exactly like that, only with plenty of furniture,
appliances and Mrs. T’s objets d’art-in-progress
to provide avian cover. Also, the cats weren’t helping nearly as much as they
thought they were.
The chicken (I think it was
Henrietta, but I can’t be sure) eventually found the open deck door and
rejoined her sisters in the back yard, at which point the cats lost all
interest in the chase.
Now the excitement is over. I’m no
longer winded, but I can’t get Eva Gabor’s voice out of my head: “New Yawk is
where I’d rawther stay…”
(616) 745-9530
No comments:
Post a Comment