I went to the backyard to grab him, to which he barely resisted. Carried him dutifully to the front yard like I'd done a thousand times before, and held him while the funnel was prepared. He remained calm, collected, almost proud. I didn't feel sad. I didn't cry or feel remorse. I had a job to do, and I did it.
He's in the refrigerator right now, waiting patiently for his final preparations. He is tomorrow's dinner.
Saturday, Trip and I woke entirely too early to ride yet another wagon train. Things were going semi-well, when the sky opened up and poured on us, and then stopped. It's not very fun to ride a steamy animal in heat and humidity with wet jeans, underwear, and hair.
Saturday night, however, was a blast. Those people really know how to party.
Sunday morning I didn't feel like riding. The horse I ride is in so much pain due to the ill-fitting tack I am forced to use, it's not worth it. I thought I'd spared him, but he was ridden anyway. So I just hung out with some baby chickens, and chopped some veggies for a fresh pasta salad until Trip and the rest of the men returned. Baby chickens are so silly.
Sunday afternoon Trip and I were so exhausted we took almost a three hour nap! That's the longest nap ever in our histories together. I hate taking naps. This one was was mandatory. I awoke to gray skies and sauntered down the road, just Woodford and I, well, and some sweet tea in a jar. At the very end of the 1.1 mile stretch of dead end road, it was completely, totally silent. I stood still with the ground for a few minutes and watched a storm come over Price mountain. There were two separate and small rain clouds far apart. It looked like a Charlie Brown cartoon. I thought I was safe. But I started feeling big drops. Ah, poo. Luckily, my knight in shining armor came by in his big truck and saved soppy wet Woodford and me. :)
Sunday night as I was putting the girls (hens) away, Trip said "What the hell laid that egg?" I ran over to inspect... It was, indeed, a chicken egg. It all came at once. This little brownish egg from this little blackish bird that knows nothing but to eat, sleep, play in the dirt. It's heavy in my hand. She made my day. She made my year. It was the period that ends a profound sentence at the end of a book. This is what it's all about.
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