Ashes To Ashes

(Silly toon because a photo of a dead bird is yucky)

Yesterday, I sitting in the office, working on the great American novel. (Actually, I think I was annoying fellow bloggers.) Thump, thump! Something slams into the office windows twice, followed by another thump elsewhere. I get up and look out, expecting to see a stunned or dead bird. Nothing but a bird-shaped splotch on the window. A check out back reveals nothing more than a covey of Scaled Quails. I get back to work.

At noon, I head out to visit the horse. Crossing the porch, something catches my eyes. Feet--sticking out of one of my flowerpots. Scaly, gray bird feet.

First, very girly reaction: It's time to call husband and inform him that when he gets home, he'll be performing a dead-bird-ectomy on the flowerpot. Minor problem: This particular pot dries out quickly and as I stare, I see that the plants--some squished under bird corpse--are starting to wilt. It had to be this pot. You couldn't stage a death scene in another pot?

The deceased is a Gamble quail; the kind with the little comma on its head. It's large and I'm thinking it might be the family patriarch. Great. Daddy's a dumb-ass and now he's dead in my flowerpot.

I'm not touching the thing--insert girly, "Ew!"--so I marched over to the barn and get the apple picker (pitchfork). I poke bird with pitchfork. Just. In. Case. Finally, I start to maneuver the tool under the carcasses. Bird is rather stiff and is wedged nicely in the pot. The plants are already, inexplicable tangled in Birdo the Dead's feathers and limbs.

Once I get it free of the pot, I march across the property, through thick, gray sagebrush, pitchfork held to maintain maximum distance between dead thing and me. "Ew, ew, ew." Instead of burying it, I left it in a coyote thoroughfare.

What? Was that wrong? Did it need a rosary and a State funeral? Maybe I should be sitting Shiva? Quick, cover all the mirrors.

I felt rather pleased with my brave, independence for about ten minutes. Then felt guilty because this could have been prevented if I'd just buy some of those hawk stickers so the birds would stop going kamikaze on the windows.

Guilt. Poor birdy. Guilt.

Wednesday, finally.

P.K.

Something Ugly

This here is Natalie.

Natalie the butt-ugly Quinine bush.

How did such a fugly plant find its way into my garden?

A few months back, Mom is up for a visit and we are at Plants of the Southwest. Mom spots a cluster of pots that are growing dead sticks. So she marches over, picks one and reads the tag: "Likes salt. Has no leaves or discernable flowers."

"Ugly," I say.

She give me a look like I had said, "Right after this, why don't we head north and club some baby seals?" I roll my eyes and wander away to look at plants with leaves and flowers.

Minutes later she creeps up to me, a plot in her eyes. "If I buy that plant, will you plant it in your yard?" Oh, crap. She feels sorry for it.

I'm a charmer, so I say something like. "No. I'll stomp on it until it's good and dead." What? Is that wrong?

Unfazed, she waits for proper answer. "Fine. I'll plant it." And stomp on it until it's good and dead.

"Will you take care of it?"

"Yeah." Yeah, I'll take care--

"Take good care of it?"

"Yes, yes, yes." Coyses, foiled again.

So there it is, Mom. Natalie is alive--I think that's alive--and has grown three stems. Should any of the family contract malaria, I will boil Natalie and make her into a quinine tea.

P. Kirby

Rat Dog Humor

Thank God this blog doesn't have smell-O'Vision. Cute, but smells like a kennel of fifty dogs.

Trick to play on your person.

**Live to the ripe old age of fourteen or fifteen.
**Wander out into the yard and stretch out in the dirt.
**Let a fly land on your nose. Let it sit there a long while.
**Don't respond when your person calls your name. Keep ignoring fly.
**Person's heart will stop, thinking beloved companion has died.

Great fun, try it.

Love, The Rat Dog

(Posted on a request for "funny." Well, Rat Dog thought it was funny. That's all I got, sorry.) Tomorrow. Nikster the Wonder Horse on "How to bite your person's ass and get away with it."

Little Drummer Horse and Other Stories From the Hood

Nikster the Wonder Horse aspires for a career in the music industry. Every night he practices, drumming his hooves against his metal feeder. Longtime readers probably know that I have given up on stopping him. Short of a hoof-ectomy, there's not much I can do about it.

Several neighbors' dogs bark all night, so screw the neighborhood. And on the one side, another neighbor has installed ugly floodlights on all corners of his uglier home addition. The lights are motion or noise activated and come on anytime the wind blows or a rabbit farts.

At night, it's like Stalag 13 over there. Any day I expect Hogan and the rest of his Heroes to pop out of a hole in the ground, tunneling for freedom from Colonel Klink.

Keeping with the prison camp theme, wacky-fun neigbors recently acquired a German Shepherd puppy. Oh, goody. Another barking dog, this one with a proclivity for ripping arms off. It's been pooping over by our side of the fence.

I'm retaliating with horseshit. My goal: a six-foot wall of horse excreta between us and them. We New Mexicans are an inventive sort. We'll make a wall (house) out of anything--tires, water bottles, straw bales. I can't afford a proper adobe wall, so I'm using what's at hand. Nikster's more than willing to oblige. In a few months, I'll wire and stucco my creation: Great Wall of Kirby.

I'm thinking turrets and gun towers. Nik will beat the drums of war.

Writing...
Even with time wasted on this blog, surfing other blogs, and reading web comics, I still got to 1800 2000 words. Another 1200 on Monday too.

Happy...where are we?...Wednesday.

P.K.