Well, I finally got up the courage and felt strong enough to go out and do a head count of my chickens.
My heart is just broken, y'all.
Last week at this time I had seventeen chickens.
Now I have nine.
Mick, Butterscotch, Chi-Chi, Cha-Cha, Trixie, Camellia, little Dearie, little Violet, and one barred rock are still alive.
Nicey is dead. Lisa Marie is dead. All three of the little red chicks that my neighbor gave me as hatchlings are dead. Two of the barred rocks. Little Blossom. I have not actually seen the bodies of Lisa Marie or two of the little red chicks. But neither of my two next-door neighbors have seen them and I think they must be gone.
And the more I think about that dog, the more filled with anger I am. I am so tempted to call animal control because they will come and put down a dog who kills for sport. At least, that's what I've heard. But you know- here we are in Lloyd and I absolutely hate to start a neighbor feud. It ain't worth it. Although this neighbor and his killer dog and his hog dogs- well.
I just don't know.
I'm feeling better but thank god for Ibuprofen. I honestly think I have some sort of chronic illness that flares when I get a virus. My large muscles and joints just scream and they were screaming the night before I actually got sick. I read an article yesterday about tick borne illness and the new discoveries they are making about it and although Mr. Moon and I have both tested negative for Lyme, as they now know, that test just is not accurate and they're also just beginning to understand how many symptoms can be caused by these almost undetectable bacteria. Treatment is still very, very experimental and often not extremely effective. I think of Mr. Moon's neurological stuff that none of the tests showed any reason for at all. I think of my constant joint and muscle pain. I think of the many, many ticks we've taken off our bodies without a thought except for annoyance. That thing about Kris Kristofferson's dementia and then his diagnosis of Lyme, treatment, and recovery? True. Not a rumor. True.
Well, at least according to the doctor in that article.
So. This is a cheerful post, isn't it?
I dreamed about August yesterday during one of my naps. He was surrounded by blues and greens and teals like the colors of the sea in Cozumel and my heart almost burst with happiness. And in three days we'll be able to see him, surrounded not by the colors of the Caribbean but the greens of Asheville, a sort of true beauty in itself. The missing of him is visceral and almost blocks my missing of his mother, my baby. But then, in writing those words, I cry.
Oh well. I am crying about everything today.
I've eaten a pancake and counted my chickens and now I think I'll actually do some ironing. I need to water my porch plants and I can certainly manage that as well. I need to think about eating something that's good for me. For some reason, the only things I've been craving are not. Good for me, that is.
I yearned for some Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and that's what I ate yesterday and it tasted wonderful but my stomach wasn't exactly thrilled. Will I ever eat a salad again? At least the pancake had peaches and bananas and sweet potato in it.
I think I'll make the bed, tuck the sheets in and spread the quilt over it as a symbol, a sign of healing. I have on actual clothing, albeit what I call actual clothing which may not be actual clothing befitting a woman eleven days shy of her sixty-second birthday.
Tomorrow the NRC begins and I am scared and terrified and I want to smack the shit out of everyone who can't bring themselves to vote for Hillary because they were so invested in Bernie. WHAT ARE THEY THINKING? Not voting is a vote for that, that, THAT...I can't think of a word or a string of words to express how I feel about him and I don't want to say his name.
It would be so funny except that it's not funny, not funny at all and the whole world is watching.
Sunday. Here we are again.
I'm going to go make wrinkled things smooth. And that's about all I can do.