Ms. Mabel appears to be gone. She did not show up for bed last night.
Damn that black and white cat. I feel certain he got her.
She was one of my two oldest hens and I doubt she's laid an egg in a year but she was a dear thing and one of Mick's favorites. In fact, last night when the sun was about to set, I saw Mick chase her down and have his way with her and I remarked to my husband that the reason Mick seemed to favor her was that she was too old to get away from him.
Guess she was too old to get away from that damn cat.
So it goes. Yesterday I had eighteen chickens. Today I have seventeen.
The anxiety is thick today. I know why. There's a memorial service in town today for a woman I knew slightly back in the old, old days and even though I did not know her that well, many people whom I've not seen in years will be there and I should go.
People who were part of my life in incredibly important ways.
And I just can't seem to figure out how to make myself do it.
These are the words flying in my brain, hitting the sides of my head, over and over again:
coward, weakling, crazy bitch, ungrateful-for-your-life cowardly, weak, crazy bitch...
The pancakes are ready and I am waiting for Mr. Moon to get back from taking the trash. Mick calls from under the bird feeder and the roosters on either side of us answer back. Is he trying to call in his sweet Mabel? Does Mabel's sister Miss Trixie wonder where she is?
Fuck if I know.
Yeah. It's Sunday. It's sure as shit Sunday.