We’ve lived here before. Well not here, here, but here “out in the country.” Actually I was raised out in the boonies on the Navajo Indian Reservation, and hubby and I spent the first five years of our married life there. (Oh, and I spent a year living in a third-world country.) Plus we’re used to the big out-doors; we’ve done a lot of hiking and wilderness camping and we can handle everything from bobcats in our backpacks to deer attacks. However, I guess at some point in the last 20 years of city life we’ve gotten a little sissy.
Oh the spiders in our bedroom, and sometimes snakes in the greenhouse, we’ve handled with aplomb. The occasional army of black ants climbing the kitchen cupboards or last week’s centipede scurrying across the bathroom floor isn’t that big of a deal. (After all I lived with giant cockroaches and cat-sized rats in the Philippines.) But yesterday? Ahhh . . . yesterday almost did us in.
Yesterday, a few minutes before my brother-in-law and sister left for an overnighter (to Colorado for a wedding), he came into the kitchen and casually mentioned to my hubby, “If the goat dies before I get back just haul it off to the dump, or take it down to one of the washes and toss it over.” I glanced at hubby and saw a tinge of green seeping from his gills, and though I hate to admit it, even my raised-on-the-rez iron-plated stomach did a flip-flop. It was just a little one, but . . . boy I was glad my brother-in-law wasn’t talking to me!
Post a Comment