I should have known it was going to be one of those weeks. I’d purposed on October 24 that I would rest as much as possible because I knew that the next two weeks would be extremely busy.
Our family had a trip to Kentucky planned to sing happy birthday to my grandma’s cousin Carolyn Harrison who turned 90 on Halloween day. Operation Christmas Child is also kicking into full swing.
Sunday morning I dressed and scurried out of the door. Operation Christmas Child was on my brain because I knew I’d have to speak to the church about this special thing that is near and dear to my heart. Now when I put my shoes on, I realized that I had fished out one black shoe and one brown shoe from under the ironing board at the end of the hall. That’s where I keep my shoes until I can find my closet floor in my room.
Anyway, when I realized the error, I went ahead and slipped into them and told myself I’d run get the brown mate in a minute. Sunday school was wonderful. We started our season of thanks feathers for the church. My children cut out feathers for folks in the church to write what they were thankful for on them.
During the worship service after I’d already talked about packing shoe boxes, I happened to glance down. I still had on one brown shoe and one black shoe. That minute to change my shoe never got here. I sighed at myself and showed my dear friend Lisa Swords what I’d done. “It’s okay, nobody noticed,” she whispered and smiled kindly. I told on myself to my sisters by taking a picture of said feet after church.
You’d think the Sunday mishaps would be over. But nooooo. As afternoon drew into evening, I roused up the cat food and headed for the kitty castle to feed and shut them up for the night. Like any good cat herdess I started counting said felines and realized one was missing. The sweet little long haired kitten that belongs to Cleopatra that was born March 8.
So I went on a kitty call all over the front yard. I felt like a bell hop in a large New York Hotel. But my kitty just wouldn’t come. With heavy heart I headed to do a second count, thinking I’d just looked over her. That can happen when you have a day or two under your shoes. But alas, my math was right for a change.
I turned to head for the truck to leave for church and there Jon was coming toward me with Princess Sophia by the scruff of her neck! “Where did you find her?” “She was in my truck,” he returned. Then I recalled the few moments I’d had his truck door open while I was putting labels on two of my Operation Christmas Child boxes. I grinned sheepishly. She must have slipped in while I was doing that.
So the week got off to a flying start.
Monday afternoon when I got home for lunch, Jon had just put on the tea water. He stepped in the back door and said, “If you miss one of your roosters, I put him under the cat house.” I eyed him questioningly. “He’s been plucked,” Jon explained.
So I went outside to examine my poor white Chanty. He had been plucked alright. His bare nubbin of a tale was shining as well as the skin on his back. “I know how you feel buddy,” thought as I looked and almost laughed in spite of myself.
Poor little plucked rooster. Jon and I tried to figure out what happened. I followed the trail of feathers from the back yard to the front. “It had to be Tuck.” I told Jon. My little Tuck doesn’t like that chicken or the other one for some reason. He chases them all the time. I didn’t think he would go on an all out plucking excursion with the feathered friend. At least now he knows how those half naked hens feel. My hens get that way going through molt.
But that isn’t the whole story, Jon figured out that we’d blamed Tuck for defrocking the rooster too soon. Later in the week he told me that he saw where the first attack was “and that explains why Tuck was so excited when I drove up that day,” he said.
Poor Tuck, we’d charged him with rooster attack before we investigated thoroughly. I guess if dogs could talk they wouldn’t be having those kinds of weeks too, huh?