Monday Night Musings: The Christian Bale Edition

Laura: "What's your favorite Christian Bale movie?"

Ian: "Umm. I don't know."

Laura: "Psycho?"

Ian: "American Psycho? Yeah, that was probably his best acting."

Laura: "My favorite Christian Bale movie is Little Women. Oh, that Laurie. He's so dreamy. And so kind to the March family."

Ian: <Giggles> "Okay. Now I get it. I was wondering why you'd ask a question like that, completely out of the blue."

Laura: "Yep. I just wanted to tell you my favorite Batman movie is Little Women."

The Night We Ran Screaming from the Poison Truck of Doom

I grew up in a rural area surrounded by woods and ponds. I played blissfully outside all summer long in relatively clean, fresh air.

So you can imagine why moving into a slightly more urban area would cause an unsettling shock to system for one huge reason:

Mosquito spray trucks.

Holy crap. Those things will be the death of me.

Ian and I walk Winnie every evening for about an hour. It's built into our routine, a time for Winnie to trot and explore, and Ian and me to jabber about our day and get some exercise.

Oh happy times

I was not personally acquainted with mosquito spray trucks until last summer. We'd be happily walking the dog, hear the dreaded high-pitch hum of the truck, and scurry back home to avoid getting showered with poison.

We'd been lucky to always be close to home when we heard the squeal of the Truck 'O Doom. But last night, we ran out of luck. Here's a play-by-play of how we narrowly escaped billowing pesticides:

Last Night:

8:01- Hurrah! Another nightly walk. The dog's excited, the sun's setting, and we're ready to go.

8:03- Jabber, jabber, talk, talk. Watch the dog earnestly sniff fire hydrants and water the plants.

8:05- Look at all the kids skateboarding, riding bikes, and playing basketball. How nice.

8:07- Uh oh. Oh god. Is that.....? OH, DEAR GOD, NO.

8:08- Listen in horror to the beeping, squealing truck chugging along, spewing organophosphates and synthetic pyrethroids into the evening sky.

8:09- Moment of truth: It will soon turn on this street.

8:09 and a half- Moment of decision: RUN, DAMN YOU, RUN.

8:10- We flee, pounding down the sidewalk, desperate to beat the truck.

8:11- Feel impressed by how quickly the eight-pound dog can run.

8:12- Feel concerned over my rapidly declining energy. How did I deteriorate so quickly? So...tired....so...old.

8:13- The truck turns onto the street we're fleeing. GOT TO FIND SECOND-WIND.

8:14- Ian finds his second-wind. Actually, he never lost his first-wind.

8:15- Ian darts through a yard as the poison truck closes in. I'm slowing down, exhausted, defeated, imagining a world of tumors and lowered IQ. I turn and see the truck grind closer, belching neurotoxins and carcinogens. I suddenly find more energy.

8:16- I dart through the yard after Ian, laughing manically.

8:17- Ian yells, "We can cut through another yard and hop the fence! Hurry!"

8:18- Ian hops a chain-link fence. I hand Winnie to Ian and artfully flop over the fence.

8:19- We are next to our yard, one more fence to go. Ian snags our old pool ladder, still in our yard from last summer.

8:20- The rednecks win. We use the ladder to climb over the final fence. We barrel towards the house, furiously run inside, and slam the door shut.

8:21- Victory is ours. Rejoice.

8:23- Read multiple scientific articles on the internet about the effects of mosquito spray on humans. Read the words, "reproductive cancers."

8:24- And then I died.

The End.

This Means War

Shit got real this past weekend. We lost two more chickens. That's three birds in less than three days.

I hesitate to reveal which ones because: 1. I obviously think my four readers consider the Winiferd family superstars and will thus sob profusely, and 2. one of the chickens who died actually was a superstar.

That's right. The predator took Janathan Fuzzy Proctor. He also took Hester Prynne.

Jane

Hester 

Baby Jane. Sniff.

Baby Hester, our shy one

It all started on Friday night. Winnie began barking at around 3:00 am. I sleep like the dead and barely noticed. But an irritated Ian tossed Winnie out of the bedroom, thinking she was barking at the cats.

In a less sleepy state, I would have instantly realized something was amiss. Winnie was barking aggressively, which she only does when something is wrong.

At around 3:30 am, Winnie began barking again. I decided this meant she needed to go to the bathroom (What? I was sleepy), so I leashed her up and groggily led her into the front yard. Winnie lunged frantically against her leash, trying to bolt to the backyard.

I picked her up, placed her in the yard, and commanded her to use the bathroom. She used the bathroom. Then I dragged a still-frantic Winnie back towards the house.

By the time we reached the carport, Winnie had grown wild. At that point, I got nervous. I made the most logical assumption one could make in that situation: an axe-wielding, homicidal maniac was in the backyard (WHAT? I was sleepy).

I scooped up Winnie, dashed inside, and locked the door. Winnie and I trotted back into the bedroom.

Ian: "Did Winnie bark?"

Laura: "Yes. She kept lunging towards the backyard."

Ian: "Something's probably after the chickens!"

Laura: "But... I thought it was homicidal maniac. With an axe. [Did I mention I was sleepy?]

Ian scrambled outside, while I fretted over homicidal maniacs.

He returned several minutes later and announced, "No more Hester. And no more Jane."

Bye bye, Janathan 

Hester in the middle of her siblings, always the calm one

Hester Prynne

We think it was a raccoon because it dug underneath the cage to grab the chickens. And we think the raccoon, knowing the chickens' whereabouts, kept coming back for more. 

Laura: "I feel like our chickens are 1940s Jewish refugees, and the raccoons and foxes are the Gestapo."

Ian: "Marjorine's writing a diary."

The next morning, we pronounced war on the wildlife. We dragged one chicken coop into the barn and dragged the other chicken coop directly beside it on the outside of the barn.

The indoor coop

The outdoor coop

Ian cut out out a door and fashioned a walkway between the two coops. 

Ian: "The chickens have a bathhouse. We're going to learn which ones are secretly gay."

Laura: "And Republican."

Marjorine and Sal inspecting the walkway/ bathhouse 

The chickens have access to both coops during the day. At night, we close off the walkway so that they spend the night in a cage inside the barn for double protection.

So far, it's worked. We hope we've thrown the predator for a loop.  

So we're down to four: Sal, Marjorine, Polly, and Caroline.

And to the area wildlife, we formally issue the following statement: Go to hell, motherfuckers. The war is on.

Bye Bye, Birdie

I have sad news: a fox snatched up Bernadette two nights ago.

Bernadette was our gold and white chicken. She was our prettiest chicken with the best coloring. We had given her two nicknames: Goldie and Birdie.

 

She had freakishly human-looking eyes. I snapped a ton of photos of her one day trying to capture those eyes.

Waging a constant battle against foxes, hawks, and raccoons brings home the fact that chickens serve as a food source in life. Alas, Birdie was one of our original five, who we raised from babyhood  to almost-adulthood. My heart is broken.

Baby Birdie 

Of course, chickens only have a life-span of approximately seven years which is pretty darn short.

And as you brood over your poor pet chicken, you start to brood over your other pets and realize dogs and cats only have a life-span of about twelve to fifteen years. But they bring so much joy, the inevitable heart-break is worth it, and you should just live in the moment and savor every smelly, barky, hissy, squeaky, squawky moment.  

My brain knows it. Deep down, my heart knows it. But I still need a moment.

Last night in the dark, in the haze just before sleep, I snuggled up to Ian and half-whispered, half-whimpered, "Our Birdie Pot Pie went to chicken heaven."

Bye Bye, Birdie.