"Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to let you in."

-- Robert Frost

Friday, August 12, 2011

Why I'm probably going to jail today

As a child, when our pets died, our dad would take us out, deep into the woods of the back acre, dig a hole, say a few words and involve us kids in a memorial of sorts.


The first time one of our pet chickens keeled over, I did just that.  We live in the woods.  That's what you do.


Maybe we got desensitized to death along the way.  Maybe it was hearing the coyotes ruckus it up in the night like somebody had brought the free BBQ wings minus the BBQ.  Whatever the case, the first time one of those meat poultry keeled, Christian and I stood over it's motionless body, weighing our options.  "Want me to go get an axe?" he timidly ventured.


"Nope ... get me a black trash bag." and I dumped that sucker.  Call it blatant disrespect for a life well lived, call it wasteful, call it pathetic.  I snapped.  I was done with the burying.  Wanna be farm girl I is, and Glad bags are properly named to take on the things I'm glad not to skin, pluck, or de-gut.


Only this time, our heat stroke victims — all nineteen of the final count that seized — are hanging out in the green bins on the corner awaiting the unsuspecting trash man.


And land o mercy, don't it stink like somethin' died out there.


Cuz it did.


I'm betting there's some law against mass disposal of dead animals.


One whiff and I just know he's going to go searching to see what these crazy folks living up in the woods are trying to hide.  May even call the police.


If he leaves well enough alone, however, maybe there'll be no problems.  I might even get away with it. 


Only as my luck would have it, I can see it now.  He'll hoist those heavy bins up and over the top of his truck right as one rigor-mortised hock punctures the side of a bag.  Then he'll probably huck dead chicken bodies at my house in disgust.


And so ... I'm hiding in my basement with my little heart a-racin'  as our 3:00 pick up approaches ... with the doors locked and the vacuum cleaner running ...  You know ... just in case.


Beware, I guess.


If you die at my house, I might just stuff you into a black trash bag and prop you down on the curb on trash day.  Just sayin'.

4 comments:

  1. Man alive! Never coming to your house again ;-)
    LOL
    Laurel

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  2. ummm...please post so we know you're NOT in jail for IAD, "Improper Avian Disposal".

    :-)

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  3. We are actually moving to our family ranch in Arkansas next week, and all my kids can talk about are raising chickens. Your story has spooked me a bit...I could use all the advice I can get!
    :-)

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  4. CRYING laughing! This is hilarious! Makes me want to live in wide open spaces again. Or maybe not. What a great upbringing for your kids. And fun tales you all will tell for YEARS!

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