It was a terribly cold night in northern central Massachusetts. The
wind swirled around the base of the Sargent-Colburn house at a high
velocity whirling only bits of grit and last summer's dried leaves, but
no snow. There had been no real snow since the freak "Happy Halloween
Storm" months before. The sky was clouded over, no stars shone in the
sky but there was still just a little light out in the back yard. The
pellet stove in the living room gave out a continuous orange flame
behind a sheet of tempered glass, and if you were in the back yard and
allowed time for your eyes to adjust it was just enough amber light to
navigate by.
If you were, say, in front of the Chicken Coop it wasn't really enough
light to let you see the little Coop door slide open, seemingly all by
itself. But it was just barely enough light to let you see that three
chickens, their heads bent low against the frigid wind ran from the
Coop and made a bee-line for the Hoomin's kitchen door. The Hoomins
were not at home that night. That was a necessary part of the plan.
It was certainly enough light to allow all assembled in the kitchen to
see the birds, puffed up enormously against the cold scurry in to the
kitchen, sliding a bit on the linoleum. Chicken feet are not designed
for traction on linoleum floors. Not at all. It was certainly enough
light for all assembled in the kitchen to see the young Loki Dog, a
black and white Australian Shepherd jump up against the kitchen door
and slam it firmly closed with her forty pounds. All were greatly
relieved when that door shut and the wind could no longer blow into the
house. There was barking, meowing, clucking, dooking, and splashing
from the Turtle in her tank up on the kitchen island. The three
chickens, Three Bucks the Rooster and his two wives were invited over
to the pellet stove to warm up which they promptly did, sitting down
with their cold yellow feet completely hidden beneath them. They cooed
in pleasure like doves as the warm air blew across their backs.
For a good five minutes the chickens were allowed to warm up while
everyone conversed. The Dog irritated the Cat, Sterling, by licking the
top of his head. Sterling scrubbed at his gray head-fur furiously with
a paw and rumbled an un-earthly tone that a smarter Dog would have been
quite frightened by. Loki Dog was endlessly good natured and clever as
Aussies are, but that is not quite the same thing as being *smart.*
Caff-Pow the pale Ferret jumped up onto the kitchen island and stood up
on his back feet against the glass of Tina the Turtle's 55 gallon tank.
Tina was still mourning the fact that her Hoomin had abandoned her,
tank and all to the Sargent-Colburns after six years of life together.
Tina was no longer small and cute. She was big, and required a lot of
tank cleaning. And Tina was proud. She did not like to talk about what
had happened to her. Oh, it was true that she was eating better than
she ever had, fresh food instead of the floating dry sticks that came
in a jar from PetCo. But her feelings were terribly hurt, terribly
hurt. Turtles experience things at their own pace, especially betrayal.
Tina was uniformly unfriendly to all, and it was only Caff-Pow who
still made any effort to speak with her.
Caff-Pow jumped up until he was hanging from his front paws from the
edge of Tina's tank. The Turtle was heaving herself up and onto the
big synthetic rock beneath the heat lamp that she used for basking and
sleeping. She turned until she faced Caff-Pow and gave him one of her
typically inscrutable expressions. She blinked. She blinked again.
"What?" She asked. Only that.
"Do you think this will work?" asked Caff-Pow, excitedly.
"No" said Tina, and she closed her eyes. Her head dipped until it
rested on the rock's surface. Caff-Pow knew that he wouldn't get any
more out of her, so he scrambled down until he was back on the living
room floor where the others were now gathered in front of the pellet
stove. He muscled in between the Cat and the Dog, and across from the
chickens, who were still warming up with their backs to the pellet
stove. Just then, Todd the Ferret came into the living room and joined
them. He came from the Hoomins bedroom, and had what looked like one
of the she-Hoomin's red sports-length socks wrapped around his head
like a turban and held in place by what was CERTAINLY the she-Hoomin's
grandmother's diamond brooch. Todd's makeshift turban glittered as if
he were some fabulously exotic Maharaja. It really brought out the
rich darkness of the raccoon mask around his eyes. Ooooh's and ahhh's
greeted his appearance, and you could see that he was not unaffected by
the other animal's appraisal. He stood up on his back feet in front of
Three Bucks the Rooster and bowed, deeply. Three Bucks regarded him
intently with his red eyes. It was no secret how Three Bucks felt about
weasels. Todd stood slowly before Three Bucks, silently contemplating
the Rooster's razor sharp beak and asked very simply "Did you bring
it?"
Three Bucks turned his head to regard his two wives, both beautiful
Buff Brahma hens. One simply dropped her gaze and looked away. The
other met his red eyes and nodded once, then closed her own eyes as
if trying to gather some inner strength. Three Bucks, still in that
sitting position that warmed his feet tipped forward, forward toward
the floor in front of him and opened his left wing, slightly, holding
it away from his body. Out slipped a single brown egg that met the
carpet with a muted thump and rolled to a stop several inches away.
All eyes, even the Turtle's were on that egg.
Part Two, Tomorrow.
Alexandra in MA
[Posted in FML 7294]
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