And the Dog Barks at Dawn

Rex and I are sleep-deprived today. It's all because the hay is making the horse cough. I can't sleep when the horse coughs. Every hack and wheeze reverberates all through my body. It doesn't help to turn on the radio or wear earplugs or clap a pillow over my head. I can still feel him coughing.

Meanwhile, Zoe, the 16-year-old border collie cross, is doing her usual 2 a.m. pacing around the downstairs, toenails clicking on the wood floor, around and around the living room. Rex has taken to sleeping in the Barc-0-lounger so he can let her out when necessary without having to climb down the ladder from the loft. This happens at least three times between midnight and 5 a.m.

In addition, every time a snowflake flutters to the ground, or the horse coughs, the shih tzus wake up, race through the doggie door and begin barking in stereo. This sometimes wakes up the roosters, who crow enthusiastically even in the dead of night. Rex calls the shih tzus in, blocks the doggie door, goes back to the b-o-lounger. The shih tzus then start slamming themselves rhythmically against the gate that keeps them in the kitchen.

Rex puts the shih tzus in their crate and latches the door. Everything seems peaceful and calm, and I almost dare to try to go back to sleep. Then, in the stillness, Zoe gives a short, sharp bark from the porch, signaling she wants to come back in. She'll bark like this at measured intervals until Rex gets up and lets her in.

He'll settle down again, and then a cat starts scratching in the litter box. Our cats really get into this activity, sometimes for a half-hour straight. It drives Rex insane.

By now I'm about to line up every animal we have here and mow them down with an AK-47. I'm sure Rex is, too.

I think if we can just find some hay that doesn't make the horse cough (we've changed his name, btw, to Mr. Coughee), I can sleep though all this other stuff. If not, at least you'll now know why I'm looking hung over all the time these days.

No, We're Not Eating Our Shoes -- Yet

We had the great pleasure of meeting up with our Seattle friends Sean and Finn the other day (while my chickens were getting murdered, it turns out) in Portland at the Children's Museum.

We were supposed to bring a bag lunch, but the only bag I had in my hand when we arrived was a plastic bag with Kayti's and my shoes in it.

Spotting the bag, Sean said, "You can put your lunch in the refrigerator downstairs."

I said, "That's not our lunch! That's our shoes!"

"Oh," he said, grinning evilly. "Now you're eating your shoes? I smell another NPR essay coming -- 'First, we moved into the cellar to save on heat. Now we're eating our shoes!' "

Sean has always been the person I count on to make me laugh. Within 3 minutes of getting to the museum, I was already weak with laughter. I had to hold onto a pole to keep from falling on the floor.


Later on, after lunch (Sean's sister Cherie generously shared her chicken salad-with-walnuts-and-cranberries sandwiches, since I hadn't had time to stop to get lunch for myself and Kayti), we followed Kayti and Finn into the little theater. People were standing around, but no one was on stage. Sean and I cannot resist an empty stage. We hopped up and announced we were doing a "Robin Hood" sketch.

I said, "I'm Maid Marian." I turned to Sean. "Robin Hood! You must flee! The Sheriff of Nottingham is coming to capture you!"

Sean said, "Here, get on my horse. He's very strong." A not-so-subtle reference to my weight. "Let's go!" People were laughing, of course.

I said, "No, no -- I have to ride sidesaddle!"

So we galloped around the stage, Sean facing forward, I facing sideways, scooching and doing a kind of two-footed hopping.

Can you believe it? We're both over 50!!!!!!

Some things never change. We get together, and we're both 15 again. This friendship is the only reason I'm glad I moved to Dover-Foxcroft. Can't imagine life without Sean!

Photos: Top, a clown shoe that might make a good entree. Inset: Finn prepares for a lifetime of probably goofy performance.

Black Day at the Stick Farm

Sure, it was Martin Luther King Jr. Day. As my daughter exclaimed, "Martin Luther King was black!"

But that's not the black we're talking about here. We're talking about death -- the death of nine fine chickens at the teeth of a scruffy, mangy, fox.

The roll: Sophie, Cupid, Vanilla, Comet, Glen, Little Pumpkin, Fudge (or daughter of Fudge, depending who you talk to), and two young cochin roosters who never even had names.

The good news is that the fox did not survive to kill again. He was in the henhouse when Rex came home. Rex shut him in, borrowed a pistol, and shot him -- twice, for good measure.

The irony is that I had seen the fox earlier in the day. He was no bigger than a large cat, and he had almost no fur on his tail. I chased him under the cabin, then, because we were not going to be home, I shut the chickens in the henhouse -- so they would be SAFE! Instead, the fox ripped through the roof of the side pen, went in the little side-pen entrance to the coop, and the chickens were there for the picking. Sitting ducks, so to speak.

There is a kind of funny side to this. A neighbor kid visiting Kayti, upon hearing of the massacre, said, "Our dog killed a couple of your chickens." Upon closer questioning, he said his father "buried one of them." This must have happened back when the ground was soft. Thanks, neighbor, for letting us know!

We now have two roosters and six hens. And plans to create a bigger, stronger, safer environment for them!

The Big Day!

Hallelujah! After Tuesday, Bush is no longer president!

And hooray, a smart person is actually taking over!

I still have to pinch myself to realize I didn't dream that the American people who sent that asshole Bush to the White House not once, but twice, elected Obama! Every time I hear Obama speak, I am simply overcome with joy that someone with a BRAIN will be in charge!

Is it too late to coordinate a nationwide ringing of church bells as soon as Obama is sworn in? Shouldn't there be dancing in the streets, and throwing of great snowstorms of confetti, and shaking of timbrels and blowing of horns and drinking of champagne and people making a very loud, very public joyful noise?

We should be throwing inaugural balls of our own, in every nook and cranny of this country. I'm embarrassed that I didn't think of it sooner, or I would have!

10:30 a.m., Sunday

Only 10:30, and it's already been an exciting day here on the Stick Farm. Thank God for my husband Rex. I never would have had the stomach to clean up dog vomit at 7 a.m., even though I was the one who gave them Kayti's uneaten (and two days out of the fridge) turkey sandwich about 15 minutes earlier.

I woke up at about 6 a.m. A lone rooster was crowing. I got out of bed. Kayti rolled over, asked in a half-asleep voice, "What was that hideous noise that woke me up?" and burrowed back under the covers. (Last night she said to a shih tzu that was sitting up begging for food: "Be off with you!" Think she's watching too much "Robin Hood"?)

OK, this may not seem that exciting to you. But compare it to this:

A few days ago I was listening to public radio on my way in to work, and the classical-music show was just beginning. (Classical music shows are always just beginning on MPBN. There is too much classical music on MPBN. MPBN, are you listening?) Anyway, the announcer exclaimed, "This is a very exciting day for us here at MPBN!" I was on the edge of my seat. Big grant from a rich foundation? Programming overhaul? Pulitzer Prize for a news story?

"This is the 100th anniversary of (something obscure about somebody obscure)," she exulted.

Talk about feeling cheated! I think dealing with dog vomit beats that, so don't give me any flak about leading you on.

Is Anybody Out There?

I'm thinking maybe there's something wrong with my Analytics tracker. How could I not have a single visitor since before Christmas? Or has the world actually ended without my noticing it?

So please, if you visit, leave a comment, even if it's just, "I was here" by Anonymous. Thanks.

The End of the World

I read the other day that our galaxy and the Andromeda galaxy are going to crash into each other a lot sooner than expected. Instead of 10 billion years, the timetable is now two billion to five billion years.

Think of it. Imagine you're around for it. Imagine it happening tomorrow. The first clue: We'd get a call at 6 a.m. that school was cancelled. Kayti would be delighted. That's worth the end of the world right there.

I'd have to have coffee before turning on the tube. Even the end of the world doesn't change that. "Good God, Rex," I'd yell. "Come look at this!"

We'd sit on the edges of our chairs, watching talking heads on TV bringing us updates on how close we are to annihiliation.

"This just in," says one, turning to Camera B. "Pluto has collided with Androcles II, glanced off and is heading for Neptune. Andromeda planet Nebuchudnezzar just whizzed by Earth, and its gravitational pull has caused a tidal wave that has engulfed Asia." She looks into the lens. "I guess it's bye-bye, China," she says, with a highly inappropriate laugh. She tidies her papers. "And now, sports cancellations with Phil."

All we can do is sit there and keep our fingers crossed that nothing slams directly into Earth or pulls a Nebuchudnezzar anywhere near the Western Hemisphere.

In a way, it would be kind of fun to say, when your kid spills her orange juice and starts crying, "Oh, honey, it's the end of the world." Or your husband experiences ED, you don't try to make him feel better -- you turn over and say, huffily, "Yes it IS the end of the world."

And if something does hit Earth, or our place on it, spot on, will it be an instant death, or will we suffer through mayhem and destruction before freezing to death or suffocating in the thick blanket of space dust enveloping the Earth? Keep those cyanide capsules handy!

I think the only thing that will survive the collision is the billing department at Central Maine Power Company. Worlds may implode, but CMP will go on overcharging us.

Old Men

At one point in my life, I was in love with a man who lived in a Toyota motor home. He was insanely insecure about our relationship. He once told me he wanted me to get really fat, so fat that I wouldn't be able to squeeze out the camper door and run away.

I think about that now, as I avoid the treadmill and beg my husband for yet another piece of chocolate (he keeps it hidden in the cellar). Would I now fit through the camper door? I think I would, despite these giant bazoombas that mushroomed in the course of 3.5 years of breast-feeding my child.

Anyway, I did squeeze through the door and run away, not because I didn't want to be with this man, but because he was, if you'll forgive the repetition, insanely insecure about our relationship. He said if I was drowning and he couldn't swim and he had no means of saving me, he would jump in the water and drown with me. (Apparently he couldn't envision life without me. So how's he been surviving these past 18 years? How come when I finally gave up on him, he didn't kill himself?)

There were so many puzzles in that relationship. He got angry with me for the weirdest reasons. One day, when I was in Savannah and he was in New York, he got mad at me because I wasn't home when he said he'd call. Woooooo, big sin! There's cause for punishment!

One day when he was railing at me because I didn't tell him often enough that I loved him, I said to him in exasperation, "Why don't we just consider it a given that we love each other?"

God, he drove me crazy. Literally. After I got away from him, it took me more than a decade to get past his negative, party-pooping influence. Now, had I only recognized right away that that's exactly what he was -- a party pooper -- maybe I could've saved myself years of sorrow.

As it was, I finally righted myself in one fell swoop. The magic letters: EMDR. I can't even remember what the letters stand for, but the procedure, which involves recalling bad experiences while listening to a rhythmic beeping, supposedly helps you properly "process" the experiences so you can put them on the shelf and be done with the emotions associated with them.

I was almost instantly relieved. I could once more see a Toyota camper approaching and not feel pure fright. I could reread this guy's letters and not feel like I should write back in a futile effort to explain myself. I stopped trying to "understand" his insecurity, and I stopped blaming myself for it. I could finally see him for the self-congratulatory, alternately mean and fawning viper he really is.

For the record, I am married to a man who has no such insecurity. I'm sure Rex would love it if I were model-thin and every man I passed was wading ankle-deep in a puddle of drool. He knows I'm happy with him.

What a relief!

Now if my parakeet would just shape up, life would be perfect.

Death by Parakeet

Well, it's Jan. 1, 2009, and this blogger is being quite neglected by her disloyal readers. The line showing visitors is flat since Dec. 22. What, Christmas is for your FAMILY or something? Get with the program! Enlightenment knows no vacation!

Speaking of Christmas, the whole tradition seemed superfluous this year. We went to bed Christmas Eve and I wondered what was so special about a few hours that we had to wait till Christmas morning to open presents. Kayti knows we are "Santa Claus," plus we buy presents all through the year, so it just seems dumb to observe the holiday. Do people really need the reminder to honor love, hope and charity? Of course not! People to whom love, hope and charity are important are honoring them all year round, and people who don't, well, they just don't! So why try to force them?

I love my family and friends and people in general (except anyone who has the audacity to move within 300 yards of my property). I don't need a stupid designated day to focus a little thought on them.

Bah, humbug.

Moving along, New Year's Eve is even stupider! It's just an excuse for a party, and I don't need an excuse for a party. If you want to drop in at my house any day of the year and party, I'm game!

...

My new parakeet has a very sharp beak.
I know this because if I give him the opportunity, he will sink it into whatever part of my body presents itself. He hangs on, too. It's not just a quick little nip. I have to pull his beak open to free myself.

I was holding him in front of me one day and the thought occurred to me that if he leaped up and bit my neck and hit the jugular vein, I might die! Jeez, I'm sorry, but that's almost as bad a thought as the fear I have of perishing by my head falling off. It's funny in a very morbid way, though, and if it should happen, I give you permission to laugh about it at my funeral (or wherever you happen to be; can't count on you folks to come to my funeral. You won't even come to my blog!).

May 2009 be your best year ever!

Love,

Debbi