Journal of a Living Lady #227

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

Eenie, Meenie, and Miney, our barred rock pullets, are no more. Neither are our young turkeys, Bud, Abby, and Costello. Big Mac, our huge dominecker rooster, succumbed also, but probably not without a courageous bout with his attacker. Known survivors include Mr. Goldenrod, the favorite banty rooster of Master Buddy, Goldie, my reddish-gold pullet, plus a few of our black hens: Sootie, Coalite, Mudpie, Darkness, and little Tar Baby.

 

This was the terrible conclusion to a vacation that had been planned and carefully coordinated. The date for our Washington, D.C. trip wasn’t set until Buddy and I had determined that each member of our poultry family had the capability to fly over the converted gazebo’s bottom half-door. Buddy had nailed aircraft sheet metal on the outside to deter any varmints from climbing inside during the night. He kindly provided a landing and launching ledge on top for our pet turkeys and chickens.

 

When the last baby turkey could master the flight in and out of the modified hen house, we were confident that we could travel and not worry about our menagerie. They appeared self-sufficient. Besides, a friend had agreed to feed them and check on them occasionally.

 

On the 4^th of July, Charlie, Tori, Buddy and I flew into Dulles Airport, unaware that it was actually quite a distance from D.C. We took the Metro bus toward downtown. Very shortly, we were stopped dead-still on the freeway for a half hour. Fireworks in the distance at the National Mall entertained us. Nothing was moving. In the streets, throngs of happy people watched the festivity. Actually our lowly city bus had some of the best seats in town.

 

Several weeks before, after considerable Internet browsing, I negotiated for a very nice double-bed room in a four-star hotel downtown. This was quite a step up from our usual choice mainly serving the economically challenged.

 

My practical, unpretentious Buddy born in Mississippi was unimpressed. His eyes rolled when he picked up a small bottle of water perched on top of the marble counter. That small bottle of regular-looking water, which claimed to be mountain stream water, was tagged at $5.50. Buddy sat the plastic bottle down as if it were a hot coal. Everything in Washington was expensive…from food, when you could find it, to souvenirs, and especially transportation. After several taxi rides, we considered renting a car, but the high-hat hotel charged $20 a day just to park four wheels. We aren’t snobby rich or straight-out poor, but we aren’t foolish with our money either.

 

Consequently, the four of us did walk a lot, but due to the cancer, I am limited in my ambulatory endurance. On the second day, in the humid Washington heat, I took a tumble at the corner curb. Within seconds, we heard the siren of an ambulance. Buddy and Charlie swiftly pulled me up from the pavement and practically threw me into a nearby taxi. Nobody wanted to go through a hospital scenario with the National Queen of Emergency rooms.

 

Though scraped and bruised from my ungraceful fall, no bones were broken. For the remainder of the trip, Buddy secured a wheelchair in every building we visited.

 

We enjoyed the Ford Theatre, the Smithsonian Institute, and the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. How often do you see over a million dollars stacked in $1 bills?  Tori and Charlie especially wanted to visit the World War II Memorial where their grandfathers’ names were recently entered in the database of the Greatest Generation.

 

The Holocaust Museum was awesome, bringing to mind a few people I have met in my lifetime who believe the Holocaust never happened. I beg to differ. The stark pictures of desperate crying toddlers reaching out for mothers, of naked, boney men and bald women robbed of dignity and ultimately life, were indelibly touching. Those photographs, made long before the technological age of digital distortions, don’t lie. The Holocaust happened.

 

After an uneventful flight home, we arrived in Young Harris near midnight. Buddy brought in the luggage before taking his flashlight outside to make a cursory inspection of the gazebo. He noted that there were a few feathers on the floor, but black chickens in a dark gazebo are hard to see. He decided to wait until morning to investigate and latched the top half of the gazebo door as a precaution against any waiting predator.

 

Morning arrived. Buddy slammed the den door, startling me as I drank my coffee. Something was wrong. He had a rifle in his hand. He explained that when he checked on our menagerie, he discovered the neighborhood black feral cat inside the hen house. Apparently Buddy had locked the menacing cat inside, with the chickens, only a few hours before.

 

With the villain contained, Buddy reacted in anger. He retrieved the pellet gun from the garage and pumped it to maximum pressure. Taking careful aim, he shot the wild cat in the neck. The dazed, crazed cat tore through the gazebo screen and fled, leaving behind a spotty trail of blood. Buddy followed but soon lost sight of the dastardly feline.

 

For his own good, that cat had best not return to the scene of the crimes. According to the scant, but smelly evidence, it appears that the attacks apparently took place over several days.

 

No funeral services were held for the victims due to the lack of sufficient remains. We will miss our pet poultry, all of which we raised from birth. Buddy and I must now do our best to protect those who survived this cat-astrophic barnyard battle.

 

Whether in Washington, D.C. or the mountains of Georgia, the old adage still applies: Those who don’t learn from history are destined to repeat it.

 

nancyk@alltel.net