vituperation

Last night at 12:58, I was awakened by the sound of a dog barking. Often at night, when I’m trying to get to sleep, I can hear dogs barking in the distance. This one seemed considerably louder.

Closer.

I realized that the for the dog to sound so loud, he must be somewhere near the house, and that I should probably check it out.

The floor creaked and popped when my feet hit it, as did my knees and ankles. Me and the house, we sing the same song in our old bones.

Outside my bedroom, the barking was even louder in the stairwell. I made my way down the stairs slowly in my underwear, taking my time because I was still stiff and the last thing I wanted was to tumble down the uncarpeted stairs. At the landing I heard something that chilled my blood.

It sounded like a cat scream.

Every night around eight, when I go out and latch the chicken coop, I open one or two of the gates so Miss Mama can come in and sleep in her favorite chair on the concrete pad if she wants to. Most nights she does, and she’s out there waiting for me when I come out at 4:46 to work out.

In my head, I saw a big dog in the back yard, tearing Miss Mama into pieces. I saw Miss Mama trying to climb the lone tree that’s in the fenced area, and failing because I put an 18-inch strip of flashing around it to stop Tom Cullen from going up it. I saw Mama dead, because of me. That got me moving a little faster.

As I got to the bottom of the stairs, I heard a definite dog yelp.

You go, Mama, I thought.

I hobbled into the front room and shut off the alarm, then snatched a pair of work clothes from where I’d hung them on the back of a chair in the dining room. Getting dressed seem to take forever. The whole time, the dog barked incessantly. He was definitely in the back yard. I raced through the kitchen and laundry room to the back door, flipped on the outside light, and yanked on the door twice before it occurred to me to disengage the deadbolt. Too late, I realized that I’d passed multiple guns between my bed and the back door, and not brought a single one with me.

There were TWO dogs in the back yard, right by the back door, barking at the fence. One was big and black and unrecognizable; the other looked like a boxer / pit bull mix. I launched myself through the screen door and down the stairs, barefooted.

“Get the hell out of here!” I said forcefully, in a low voice.

The dogs obliged, and immediately ran to the opposite side of the yard where the single open gate was. They were out and gone in a flash. That’s when I realized there was a third dog in the yard with me, another big dark one, out by the chicken yard. He ran back and forth in a panic, looking for a way out. I walked along the fence toward him and herded him toward the gate. All I could think of was Miss Mama, and what sort of shape she might be in.

Finally, the dog found the gate and vanished through it. I walked slowly through the wet grass looking for Miss Mama. I didn’t see her anywhere.

“Miss Mama?” I called.

Maow.

Miss Mama was laying in her favorite chair on the concrete pad, where she’d been all along. She’s so badass she didn’t get bothered by the freaked out dogs at all. Apparently they’d wandered in, looking for food, then couldn’t find their way out and panicked. Stupid dogs.

I petted her a bit, waiting for my heart to stop fluttering and my knees to stop shaking. I left her in her chair and headed toward the house to wake Robyn and tell her what had happened.

I made it to the steps before the fire ants all over my feet starting stinging.

Not impressed by big scary dogs.

Despite knowing it wasn’t ready, I couldn’t resist picking a watermelon.

I was right, but damn, that center was good.
Nothing beats the taste of something just-picked, even when it’s not ripe.

After we ate the heart, Robyn turned the rind into pickles.
Sort of. They’re so sweet and the syrup so thick that they’re more like preserves.

I found a mutant on one of the zucchini plants last week.
It tasted better than a normal one. Too bad it was an accident and not something
I could plant next year.

Miz Poo investigates Friday’s tomatoes. I get about half that every day,
but we had a good rain on Thursday which led to a bumper picking Friday.

Our first canned tomatoes, some of which came from the bucket above.
These were canned uncooked, and shrank a lot. Next time, Robyn plans to try
canning some cooked tomatoes.

Yesterday’s green beans. We get this much two or three times a week.
I’m thinking now that planting a second row was unnecessary, since the one row is doing so well.

Here’s what the canning shelf looks like right now.
Most of those are green beans. We need to buy some sort of cabinet.

The black-eyed peas are getting bigger and bigger, but still not quite ready.

Robyn and I went over to River City yesterday so I could test drive a Hyundai Accent. All along, I’ve planned to trade in my SUV now that I have a truck, so I can save on gas. My current vehicle gets about 18 MPG on a good day. Usually, it’s less because I have something of a lead foot when it comes to accelerating.

I was interested in the Accent because this particular one (a manual) gets 35 MPG in the city and 37 on the highway. That rocks. It handles well and is very responsive, but it’s also a little unnerving to drive because I’m not used to being so low to the ground and smaller than all the other cars on the road.

I ended up bringing one home for the weekend because I couldn’t make up my mind after a single 10-minute drive.

It looks black, but it’s dark blue.

I don’t know if I’m going to keep it, though. Last night, I read that the Accent is one of the greenest cars of 2007. I’m not sure if I’m smug enough to drive a green car.

The girls are looking more and more like hens, even though they’re not even pullets yet.
Egg production should commence anywhere from 2-8 weeks from now. It’s about damn time
they started pulling their weight.

Flappy and Frick have the prettiest neck feathers.

One of the buffs gives me the stinkeye.

One of the Barred Rocks is developing a really nice comb.
She’s starting to look like a classic hen. Now for some eggs.

Just now, when I came back in from taking the picture of Miss Mama above, I realized after several minutes of sitting that I felt a cool wet spot on my ass. Perplexed, I leaned to the side, reached around, and touched the wet spot.

Then, being a guy, I sniffed my finger.

It smelled kind of like ass.

So I stuck it down the back of my underwear this time, fingered the wet spot, and sniffed again. Still smelled like ass. *

I was stumped. After all, I’d had a shower not too long ago, and I’m a big believer in having an ass so clean you can eat off it.

Deciding it might be my finger that smelled like ass (no, I don’t know why I thought my finger might smell like ass), and not the wet spot, I tried with a finger off my other hand.

Ass.

Finally, I stood up and dropped my shorts and underwear. In the ass part of my underwear was a watery brown circle about the size of a silver dollar.

I’d sharted myself.

For an instant, I was mortified. Then it dawned on me — I hadn’t tried to fart since I got out of the shower, hadn’t had any sort of strain that might result in an escapee in my tighty whities. I didn’t see any way it could be a shart. Anyone who’s ever had one knows that you KNOW the instant it squirts out.

There’s no such thing as a sneak shart.

I stepped out of my pants and looked at the rear of them. Ah. Apparently I sat in a pile of chicken shit when I sat down to take the picture of Miss Mama.

And that, folks, is what it’s like to live in the country.

* Interestingly enough, I’m wearing a shirt with two pictures on it. On the left, a monkey has his finger on his butt. On the right, he’s smelling his finger. Underneath, it says Scratch and sniff.