Dinner with Richard

Yesterday was my first day not working, but working under a tight writing deadline.  So after taking Abbie to day care, I took four dogs and one cat to the vet in the morning.  There, I was somewhat belittled by a new vet who couldn’t understand that I actually have to budget money for visits and couldn’t afford the two surgeries she thought might be of assistance (this after spending $500 on Walter’s stomach flu the week before).  I went running with the tribe (cat excluded).  I wrote for the afternoon.  Then, at about 5:30 in the afternoon I thought I’d better make dinner. 

One thing to know.  I don’t make dinner.  I can cook three things – tuna casserole, hamburger and beans, and something looking like lasagna, but none of them well.  But with a first day off work I thought, belatedly, this is what the person at home does.  Think of others or at least try to think of others.    I turned the oven on to 375, a fitting temperature for just about anything, microwaved one potato and one yam for five minutes, and thought….I better go check my chickens.

I had let Wrigley, the barred rock, Chickago, the New Hampshire Red, Rhodie, the Rhode Island Red, Kate, the black sexlink, and Catherine, the Polish Sussex out for the afternoon.  With the dogs inside and resting after a good day’s run, this is usually a safe escapade. My little chickens run like little dinosaurs into the sumac brush and spend their time kicking up dirt and roosting on branches.  But, it is not a safe escapade when you realize a little too late that Emma, our reclusive Emily Dickinson of dogs, came in from her afternoon’s nap, opened the front door (her usual trick) and let loose the three bird dogs.  Each of the vizslas made a bee line for their favorite sport, chicken chasing, about ten minutes before I realized the door was open and they were missing.

It’s somewhat of a scary venture when you turn from the front lawn and into the back and wonder what chicken carnage you might face.  And today, like most days, there was no problem.  I called to the dogs, each of whom came running, placed Walter, Willow, and O’Malley inside the garage, and called to my chickens.  Out scampered Wrigley, Chickago, Catherine, and Kate and they quickly entered their yard. 

Rhodie, however, was AWOL.  About this time Richard and Abbie came home.  I explained my plight.  Richard said, “you know a chicken will always find his way home.” I said, “that’s what you said when Omelotte went missing.”  “I stand corrected,” he countered, “a chicken will make its way home if it is mobile enough to get home.”  “And there lies our crux, honey.  I am going chicken searching.”  The thought “wasn’t I about to make dinner?” never crossed this chicken rescuer’s mind. 

I do have a secret agent for chicken rescuing, the same dog who sends them running, only this time toward me.  O’Malley runs from the open garage back door into the sumac brush.  Her nose, which is to the ground, leads her in circles and loops, and back further and further into the brush when the cackle erupts.  “Bawk,bawk, bawk, bawk.”  She chases little Rhodie nearly up into my arms.  Crisis averted.  Chicken, a little worse for the wear, rescued.

And this is when O’Malley runs to the front yard barking.  Our two neighbor girls and their father are here to invite Abbie to go swinging.  And so out little Abbie comes squealing with delight and calling to “EllaGrace” like their names are one word.  I accompany her, of course.  First to the swing, then to the climbing tree, then the clubhouse, then the tree house, and then to the stick tree.

When we return an hour later, Richard asks me if I know how long I was gone.  “Long enough to climb four trees,” I respond.  “Have I told you I haven’t worn my watch since the moment I stopped working?” 

Abbie and I try to tell Richard everything we did. “Abbie climb tree, Daddie.”  Our progress is stopped by the beautiful dinner he has sitting in each of our places.  Spaghetti with chicken (not our chickens) for Abbie.  Baked yam and pork for me, with a glass of wine thrown in for good measure.  I make such a terrible cook and I married such a lovely one

“What did you do today?” he asks.

“Well, I went to the vet, went running, wrote my thesis, and then posted my first blog.”  I read it to him.

“That’s awesome,” he says, “but are you going to tell the truth?”

“Of course I am, my version of the truth.”

“Will you admit your butt has been growing bigger this year?”

“As long as I can say your stomach should have its own zip code.”

“I’m kidding, darling.”  I know he’s not.  I’ve seen my butt.

“Me too.  Yes, I’ll tell the truth.  You made a lovely dinner.”