Daily Archives: July 6, 2015
Anyone can access a public Facebook page if they have the right URL.
I keep an album called “LOLing” of things that make me giggle. When I am at that page, the URL in the browser box only works for Facebook members who are logged in. It looks like this:
I obtained a URL that works for anyone by clicking on the gear and choosing Get Link. It looks like this:
DW’s son asked her last week if we would mind cat-sitting while he was out of town visiting his half-sister. Of course, she agreed. I was not informed in advance, since my opinion stopped being relevant about 10 seconds after I said ‘I do.’ The cat was with us for four days, which was not enough time for her to leave the scent of eau de litterbox #5 wafting through the house. She did, however, suffer a separation anxiety attack the first night and serenaded us with an aria in D-flat minor.
When I first left the farm and struck out on my own years ago, I made the decision not to have pets. This was for a variety of reasons. I drove a route truck and was gone for long hours, sometimes overnight. I also did my share (more) of womanizing and quaffed more than a few flagons of ale back in the day. I just didn’t want to be responsible for another life when I had little control over my own. My second wife, Tyler’s grandma, found a little black kitten when she left work one day and put it in her pocket and brought it home. She named him Smoky. He had a habit of laying in the front room then for no apparent reason, tearing as fast as he could round and round the house. That’s why I nicknamed him Dumbass.
To be sure, we had a lot of critters on the farm. Even in a severe hallucinogenic state, I couldn’t picture granny putting a leash on one of the dogs and walking around with it and picking up the poop. All our house animals went outside to do their business. It would have been a pretty funny sight, though. I got along with all the livestock with a few notable exceptions.
One of my first chores was to feed the chickens and gather eggs. There was one old hen that I tried to avoid when she was in her nesting box. When I reached under her to get the egg she’d puff out the feathers on her neck, back up and start flapping her wings and dare me to reach for it. “Allahu Cluck cluck!” She was a chicken terrorist. She was a poultrygeist. If memory serves, she wound up co-starring with Granny’s dumplings one Sunday for dinner.
We also had a big gray goose who used to chase my younger cousins for no reason. He’d fly up and try to peck them in the face. Hell, I was afraid of him. He was the antichrist with feathers. He actually did do some good, in that blue roaster surrounded by root vegetables. Granny loved dark meat; goose,duck and rabbit.
I could never understand why the breed bull was so antisocial. All he had to do all day was eat, crap, and make cow baby mamas. Maybe it had something to do with the fact when my cousin brought his BB gun over we’d sit behind the slats in the fence and take pot shots at his genitals. Do you know how big a bulls’ balls are? I know it sounds cruel, but we rarely hit them, and life on a farm can be really stressful when you have to work all the time.