Tag: Pets

Lurking in the Woods

~ Christine Goodnough ~ 3 Comments

The Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning is BUGBEAR and I’ve done two versions in response. 

The bugbear in the darkness
the wolf in the wood...
dark tales in the gloaming
were told for children’s good.

A way to keep adventurers
behaving like they should
in their beds at decent hours
respecting parenthood.

They stultified the curious
these bogeys that consume
snooping children in the dark,
wanderers in the gloom.

Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day this morning is STULTIFY

Image: Melani Marfield — Pixabay

“Yonder Street That Fronts The Sun”

~ Christine Goodnough ~ 4 Comments

The Ragtag Daily Prompt word for today is DISPOSABLE

I haven’t written a story for awhile and today I’m in the mood for fiction, and inspired by this poem. So here goes…

Little I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone –
a very plain brown stone will do –
that I may call my own;
and close at hand is such a one
in yonder street that fronts the sun.

--Oliver Wendell Holmes

The New Home

“I sure hope you’re going to be happy here, Mom,” Miranda said as she took a couple of suitcases from the trunk. “You’ve brought so few of your things with you. But I guess you don’t have room for much.” She eyed the tiny cottage and sighed.

“Don’t worry,” Alice reassured her. “This will be a cozy nest for me. I’ve brought with me the things I really love and will use every day. Looking around that huge house, I realized just how much of what we had was non-essential. Quite disposable, really.”

Her son-in-law looked up at the sky. “You’ll get the morning sun here. That should be cheering.” He picked up her microwave and Alice hurried to unlock the door for him.

Franz was trying to be upbeat, she knew. They’d questioned her choice of a small cottage on a dingy street, but what could they do? They glimpsed the tip of the iceberg, not the full extent of her penury. Widowed now, she could never afford that huge house, or even a nice senior’s apartment.

Miranda said, “I’m sorry you had to part with your lovely bone china, but I’m sure Chandra will take good care of it.” Chandra was Alice’s granddaughter. “Still, I hope you aren’t planning to live on instant dinners in disposable pouches?”

Alice laughed. “No, my dear, I’ll make myself proper meals now and then.”

Back at the car again, Franz grabbed the cat carrier from the back seat. “Alphonse will have a nice little back yard to prowl.”

“Yes, I have Alphonse to keep me company. We’ll get along quite well here.”

After her things were soon unloaded, her children had kissed her goodbye, and left, Alice let the cat out of his carrier. As he explored their new home, she sat in a chair and surveyed the furnishings she’d chosen. Tears slid down her cheeks. So much was gone; so little left of her old life.

Howard’s investments hadn’t borne much fruit; he’d kept that fact from her. Did the worry over finances cause his heart attack? What she’d sold had covered the debts and paid for this home, left her enough income to live on – she was thankful for that. Her knew her children would help out, but she didn’t want to be a drain on them.

She dried her tears, wandered into the kitchen and stared out the back door. The small fenced yard had a tiny patch dug up for garden, mostly weeds now. Well, she’d plant some flowers there. Maybe some lettuce and a few tomato plants. She went back to the counter and began opening boxes.

Firecracker

~ Christine Goodnough ~ 11 Comments

The Ragtag Daily Prompt today was CONNIPTION. In response I’m going to post one of the stories I wrote awhile back, and read at the POETRY NIGHT two weeks ago. I’ll embellish it a bit for today’s prompt.

Image from Pixabay

Firecracker

See that handsome young rooster? That’s Firecracker. Raised him from a chick, I did, fed him, fussed over him, gave him lots of TLC so he’d be nice and plump come fall. He was a cute little guy back then, especially when he started following me around the yard. I’ll admit, I’m going to miss having him tagging along after me, but now that he’s full grown, he’s going to be the star of our Thanksgiving table.

He wasn’t very old when the grandchildren named him Firecracker — and we thought it was kind of a cute name, so it stuck. I’ll tell you why he got that name. Oh, yes, he can make enough noise when he wants to, like at 5am when you’re wanting another hour of sleep. But you should hear him explode when he catches sight of a mouse or rat around the chicken yard. One day the grandchildren were in the yard fussing over him like they do, when he spied a mouse in the grass nearby. They said he went off just like a firecracker and went dashing over to do battle.

He’s been really good that way. Every time he sees a rodent he goes after the thing, calling all his ladies to come help him. He has a certain kind of squawk that says, “Enemy spotted!” and the hens come running. Our dog, Duchess, dashes into the action, too, when she hears that sound. Between them all, they make short work of rodents. And what a conniption if the intruder manages to escape into a crack in the wall!

I’m thinking old Duchess will miss Firecracker. The hens will, for sure, but he’s destined for our Thanksgiving table. One can’t be too sentimental about these things.

One thing I’ve been happy about is how good Firecracker behaves when the grandchildren come over — maybe because they’ve fed him grain and other tidbits ever since he was just a spring chick. Roosters can sometimes be cantankerous, but not him. And you know how kids are: as soon as they get here, they rush out to see Firecracker. He usually comes running when he hears their voices, to see what treats they might have for him.

Maybe we shouldn’t have let them spoil him quite so much. When I told the youngest grandchild last week that Firecracker is going to be our Thanksgiving dinner she got all sober and sad-looking for awhile. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. I guess she’s going to miss seeing him around.

One of the grandsons must have heard about this, too, because he phoned a few days ago and asked, ” Grandma, are you really going to cook Firecracker for our dinner?”

“Well, yes. We can’t eat him raw.” I was trying for a little levity but by the gulp I heard from his end, I guess he didn’t appreciate my humor. So I gently explained to him how Firecracker has had a good life and now it’s time to say goodbye, because he belongs on our Thanksgiving table. That’s what Grandpa and I raised him for. This is life on the farm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve got the bread cubed and in the freezer for the stuffing. On Tuesday my husband’s going to dispatch Firecracker. I’ll tell you, plucking that bird is going to feel pretty odd — he has such beautiful plumage, you know. Oh, hang on a minute…my phone’s ringing. Call display tells me it’s my oldest son.

“Hi, Jason,” I say. “How are things going? Glad to hear it. By the way, I wanted to let you know we’re planning to have our Thanksgiving dinner at 5pm this time… What do you mean, you’re not coming? … Are you saying NONE of you are coming? But why? I have this huge meal planned…

“Your kids are all refusing to eat Firecracker. Can’t you just explain that he’s part of our Thanksgiving meal – that’s why we raised him. What are we supposed to do with him if… What!?”

I tell Grandpa about the call and he shakes his head. “What a conniption!”

“The grandchildren have all emptied their piggy banks and they want to buy Firecracker. They want to keep him as a pet, of all things, and we can just let him live here. The family is offering to bring fish for the meal—Jason says none of them know any fish.”

“If that doesn’t beat all! Guess he’ll live to a ripe old age then.”

“I’m not especially sentimental,” I tell him, “but I’ll admit I’ve gotten rather fond of old Firecracker myself. And for sure the hens will be more content having him about the place. Even Duchess will be happy if Firecracker lives to chase more rodents.”

“Guess we can do this to make the grandchildren happy,” says Grandpa. “But next year we’ll buy a bird from the store and not let them see it before it’s cooked and on the table.”

Hope is a Thing With Mice

~ Christine Goodnough ~ 17 Comments

Monday Morning Musing

Good morning everyone. Time for a brief update and maybe a few haiku. Last night I was reading a book about the early masters of haiku. According to an old legend one of them, Ihara Saikaku (1642-1693) wrote 23,500 verses in a day. Can you imagine writing almost a thousand verses in an hour – using Japanese characters? Legend is a wonderful thing.

Would any of those be of sterling quality? (STERLING being the Ragtag Daily Prompt word this morning.) I was inspired to do a few myself, but for sure mine aren’t very sterling. It’s not hard to dash off words, but it takes me time to write something that will even make sense.

winter nipping
a mouse squeezes into the warmth
heaven or hell?

When the winds blow cold and there’s a nip in the air, hopeful mice are wont to creep into houses, hoping to find a cozy home for the winter months, hopefully with a food source not too far away–like a bowl of cat food on the floor. Last Friday I was sitting in my recliner reading, while my black cat dozed contentedly on my lap. Glancing up, I spotted one such hopeful mouse creep out from under our wood stove sitting in the corner of our living room. We have poison set out, but this must be a clever mouse.

brave mouse scurries
under my wood stove
wee Napoleon.

“Mouse, Angus! Mouse,” I screeched, and the mouse quickly disappeared. Angus opened his eyes and gave me a “What are you on about?” look. It didn’t take long, though, before both of our cats caught on about those little mouse feet scrabbling on the stones. I’ve moved the cat food elsewhere and our cats spend time by the wood stove these days, hoping for a Waterloo.

Fresh Snow

Winds are definitely whipping and winter is nipping today. After a mild spell most of last week, the temp dropped yesterday evening and a north wind picked up. Snowflakes were falling by the time we left church, just before 9 pm, and before long we had the makings of a storm. Fine flakes blew through the air all night; we’ve a nice amount this morning and more is falling as I write this.

“Hope is a thing with feathers…” In this case sparrows hoping for a few grains have found a bare spot on our driveway somewhat out of the wind. Our sidewalk is blown in ankle-deep, I learned as I waded out a bit ago to scatter seed for them.

lame magpie
bullied by his own finds peace
among the sparrows

Poetry Reading

“Hope is a Thing With Feathers,” the famous poem by Angie Dickinson, was one of the verses read at our Poetry night Saturday evening. I was hoping for a bit larger crowd but, apart from the readers and their partners, only five others attended. Hopefully next time… Renaming it “Literary Night” might draw more interest. I read a mixture of my own poems and short stories myself.

Click here to read one of them.

So Tomorrow Will Be Twitter Tuesday?

Now that Black Friday sales are basically done, I received half a dozen ads this morning telling me that today is Cyber Monday. Can anyone explain that? No, never mind…

I’m hoping this will be a better week for me. I was pretty wiped out last week, not sick but very weary. Energy level 2/10 kind of thing. I suspect my white cell count is on the rise, but we’ll see how this week goes. Hope is a thing with energy… 🙂 I’ve another phone visit with my oncologist Dec 12, which should give me a better idea how things stand.

Speaking of energy, it’s our youngest grandson’s 12th birthday today.

Image: Dessie Designs — Pixabay