Rarely, if ever, do I get sick. But I’m sick. Perhaps I’ve been poisoned. Maybe my arch-nemesis the mink is, in realty, trying to kill me just as I am trying to kill him. So far, he’s evaded capture. And taken to my sickbed, I cannot adequately hunt him. Smart animals. They’re rule the world one day.
It’s lucky that Don left for Washington, D.C. this week. I’m in charge of the homestead all alone. It’s like when Charles Ingalls would leave Caroline alone on the farm while he traveled to Mancato or the such to fetch some much needed medicine. So on my own, and sick, it took me until about 10:30 to feed the animals this morning. Luckily, this afternoon we have some help on the farm, and the animals will be fed by someone with a tad more gusto. And I can stay inside eating my pumpkin seeds (they’re healthy, aren’t they?) and drinking my black tea (that’s good for me, isn’t it?).
The past couple days have been miserable. The constant rain has meant flooded barns, mud pits a la Woodstock, and manure that has become unrakeable. And so, we’ve all been living as best we can. But nothing seems to deter the mink. We’ve lost another duck. So from a flock of 37 birds, we are down to 11. Maybe he’s sick too. That’s why he needs all the chickens. He’s got a mean old cauldron of soup bubbling somewhere under the farm. No doubt sharing it with foxes and the voles, all wearing English tweed and conversing ironically.
I will recover though. And then the party’s over. So sip your soup while you can, my predator friends. I will rise again. And then, like a soufflé in a pre-school oven, you will fall.