Some people can read stories in the snow. For those who knew where to look our first snowfall of the year told a story. And, like any good story it starts with a villain.
The fox came out of the trees trotting toward the chicken coop.
Bold as brass he jumped right on the chickens front porch. There he did what foxes do at chicken coops.
And the trail of feathers told the tail.
Just around an apple tree the fox tracks are joined by another set as our hero joins the chase.
The tracks lengthen as the dog runs off after him. And what is this following behind?
Why it looks like the track of a crazed woman, owner of both dog and chicken who is tired of her birds being used as a fox buffet and willing to fly through a snowfall barefoot with her dogs to stop it.
Sadly. Our tale is a tragic one for the chicken as the fox disappeared through the snow, prize in mouth, despite our hero’s best efforts.
The snows have continued coming since the story began and on each fresh white page the story goes on, another lost chicken, a run in with the turkey that the fox lost and who knows, maybe one day the story will have a happy ending…
But I wouldn’t call myself a cat person. I am firmly in camp dog. Why you ask?
This is why:
For those who cannot see or understand what they are looking at let me explain. This is a photo of a cat laying in a crate of potatoes. The potatoes are the last of the harvest I’ve just pulled in from the garden. The cat is laying directly on the cold lumpy potatoes and looks as uncomfortable as one would expect to be laying on cold lumpy potatoes. There is no reason for her to shed all over my fresh produce other than that cats are, essentially, jerks.
But, my cat loving husband says, your dogs would probably pee on them if given an opportunity. And I can’t disagree. My boys will pee on anything they deem necessary to claim as their own. And if it were at dog peeing level and they didn’t pee on the potatoes they would probably steal them and play with them like I had just provided them with the best toys ever. But the difference is they would be happy. Joyfully marking their territory, proudly showing me the new thing they “own” ecstatically asking me to join a game with their new “toys”. Oh, they would be in trouble but hidden beneath their rotten choices are hearts of gold.
Look at this cat. She’s not even happy to be laying on the potatoes. She, like all cats, does not have a heart of gold but something much more sinister and dark. Cats are known for covering the coziest, warmest spots around. There is no reason to lay on my cold, lumpy potatoes other than to prove that as a cat you can.
This morning while outside doing my daily chores Goose brought me a possum.
He unwillingly held it for a moment while I took a picture and then spit it out into my hand (never pass up an opportunity to practice good retrieves). Having no real issue with possums, I always stick them up in a tree when the dogs bring them to me and let them come to and wander off when they are ready. This morning though I had a better idea, a way more fun idea. I put the possum up on a platform bird feeder in the backyard, well out of the reach of the dogs and then went inside to announce to the entire house of schooling and working people that their was a possum playing dead in the birdfeeder and they should keep an eye on it so they can see it walk off.
John came down from his office to adjust the possum so he could tell from his view when it woke up. Kids ran to windows. The excitement a possum can bring to this household is not to be underestimated.
And then we waited…
And it turns out that while every other time the possums the dogs have retrieved have been playing dead, this possum was dead dead.
It seems like a perfect analogy for those days that seem like they’ll be shiny… and then… no.
A dead possum kind of a day.
Somedays are like that.
Until next time,
May your health be fair and your dead possum days be few.
I’m not much of a musician. I try, somewhat, but my efforts, combined with my innate lack of musicality, mainly succeed only so much as to bring to mind a certain phrase about flogging a dead horse.
However, I excel at playing the dog whistle. While it might not be the most tuneful instrument around I always have a rapt and appreciative audience.
Chalk that up as another reason to love a good dog.
When you take your guard duties seriously it’s important to have the high ground.
Willingness to leap to the top of a five foot high stump is imperative if you are to truly do your duty as a watch dog. As is the tenacity to bark at the neighbor no matter how many times you’ve been told not to. And most importantly never, ever, smile no matter what the tourists do for a picture.
I’m participating in the April Squares challenge over at The Life of B come check it out!
Behind the Willows 