Now that Thanksgiving is out of the way, we begin our mad rush to Christmas.
For us, that means endless orchestra / Fiddler performances for Laurel, including the next two weekends plus two mid-week performances; Laurel’s ACT test; a work event for Greg; getting the Christmas tree; shopping; and putting up Christmas lights.
Maybe we’ll get to that last one this year, maybe not. Yesterday afternoon I was betting we might not, with all our other obligations and the weather, so I decided to take it upon myself to at least decorate the back deck. It wasn’t too bad in the beginning, but as the afternoon wore on and the wind picked up, it got blustery and cold, cold, cold. I had just about had it. My fingers were frozen, raw, and sore from untangling lights and affixing clips to the deck. My nose was running like a faucet. But then inspiration struck.
I ran downstairs and out the basement door. On my way, I decided I needed to move the chicken coop. As I was moving the pen, I felt something on my leg – a repeated drumming. It didn’t hurt, but it was one heck of a strange sensation. I glanced back – I had my back to the chickens – and I’ll be damned if that rooster Clyde wasn’t attacking me over and over. It was as though he was repeatedly chest-bumping my leg with a few good wing-flaps thrown in for good measure. I gave him a couple of half-hearted, gentle nudges with my foot to discourage him.
Clyde was undeterred.
He continued his insurgency, so I responded with a good sound kick that sent him tumbling across the pen.
My counterstrike addled him just enough to get the pen moved where it needed to be. Clyde recovered quickly, then redoubled his efforts and did his best to attack me through the pen’s fence.
So Clyde may not be long for this world. I have little patience for violence in most circumstances, but I sure as hell will not deal with it from an animal I have cared for since it was a baby.
* * *
After dispensing with our civil war, I continued my quest. About 30 minutes later (or so), it was complete: