Of Waterfowl and Wet Nurses
Today Amy tells us all of her deep and undying loathing for geese. Granted, I don't have to fend off hissing goose-arazzi on my way to work; but let me tell you something you may not be aware of: Geese, and most birds larger than say, a sparrow, are evil. Cases in point:
My grandfather was attacked by a goose as a baby - the goose picked him up by the skin on his back. His mother removed the baby and wrung the gooses' neck. Dinnertime!
Growing up, we kept chickens for Strategic Egg and Hippy Parent Purposes. When I was a baby, the chickens were chicks - cute, fuzzy, peeep! peeep! peeeEEEp!ing little things. By the time I was walking, they were big, fat laying hens with scaly, taloned feet and sharp darting eyes and snapping beaks. We were about the same height at the time, which meant that when I walked out barefoot in the morning to collect the eggs I had a choice: I could attempt to completely curl my toes under my feet in hopes of avoiding a free backyard toe-ectomy, OR I could close my eyes in hopes of retaining my retinas and not running face-first into the coop. Speed was the key to a sucessful egg collecting morning. Happily this situation improved for me when I got to delegate my sisters to collect the eggs.
I was attacked by a goose while trying to feed it bread. By my calculations, simple bread distribution while clad in tiny pink overalls is an enormous irritant to your average goose. So deep is this offense, it will cause the goose to run at you, hissing and flapping its huge, hard wings while trying to rend your tender young flesh from your bones.
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In a non-bird-hating vein: I'm looking for a pacifier for a kitten. Edie is a sweet little female thing with all the wiles of a pretty girl. She's perpetually either getting (silenty) into the cupboards, butting in under Fynns' chin (delicately) to get to the water glass, or biting his tail and prancing (cutely) the other way. After her traumatic abandonment as a tiny baby, she never really got a chance to be comforted by her mom. As a direct result of this early trauma, she has a deep and unabiding need to suck on something until she can fall asleep. Since the second night she's been here, that something has been either my shirt, my sheet or my arm. I wake up some nights to the distinct sound of a little furry mouth nuzzling my neck. I'm missing only a single cat hickey and my transformation into C.C.L. (Crazy Cat Lady) will be complete. She'll look a little funny running around with a plug in her mouth, but it will save me the humiliation.
3 comments:
You should have named her Maggie Simpson. This will be the kitty who people always think is a kitten - it never seems to grow older. And, you are hopeless: you already are a CCL. Need I remind you of the list of items Fynn was supplied with while at a cat HOTEL?! :P
I would - but Scott named her Edie already! I am vying for CCL title with my sister - did I tell you that Roni is planning to breed her (boy) cat to my aunts cat so they can have Ragdoll kittens with "ghost tabby/seal point' Markings? No? Well there's a genetic experiment in the making!
The items Fynn was supplied with were for my peace of mind, mostly. He only played with his chart (pulled it through the wire of his door, shredded it to bits) and ate his bed. Think of the NEXT time we go somewhere! Ha!
Hey, so where are you linking my Darwin post to? What did you think of it?
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