It’s been nigh-on two weeks of near-death experiences around here.
First we had our sick chicken, Flopsy, who couldn’t seem to stand on her own two feet. Then we had my father, hospitalized with an EKG that looked like one of those seismic meters during an earthquake. Then the cat, who’s become decidedly indoorsy in her old age, disappeared on, of all things, a rainy night. To cap it, I went out this morning and counted five turkeys instead of the usual six.
Today, though, all is well. Although Flopsy is not one hundred percent, she’s doing much better. She started eating, drinking, and clucking, and stopped nestling down in the straw lining her cage. We took her out today and reunited her with the flock. She’s still slow on the draw, but we have high hopes for her recovery.
My father is out of the hospital, pacemaker/defibrillator successfully installed. He can boast a steady pulse of 60, something he hasn’t seen in at least a decade. His career as a porn star, however, is definitely over.
The cat simply reappeared, pissed on the floor, and left again. We’re thinking it’s the beginning of the end. It is, at any rate, way past the end of the beginning.
And the turkeys? Well, seems I can’t count. When Kevin came to check them mid-morning, they were all there, present and accounted for.
It was the trifecta of crises: livestock, pet, family. I’m happy to report that we’re all stable and optimistic.
The car, though, is making an ominous creaking noise.