Rosie the Chicken

For I have no pleasure in the death of anyone, declares the Lord God; so turn, and live. - Ezekiel 18:32


So I have this chicken…

My dog is a known lover of chickens.  His name is Lucky, but occasionally he turns into his alter-ego, El Diablo, and kills and eats one of my chickens that has gotten out.  Or my ducks.  Or random bunnies.  He’s a meat eater by nature.  It’s no fault of his own that they are delicious.

So we keep the dog separate from the chickens at all possible moments and keep the chickens’ wings trimmed to minimize their flying over the fence and into enemy territory. 

But…

A couple of months ago I noticed we had a regularly out black hen.  Her morning trek takes her over her own fence, across the backyard, over the dog’s fence and into his pen, where she looks for a morning snack of june bugs that have drown in his swimming pool overnight.  Several times we’ve come home to find the chicken and dog in the dog pen.  So far, El Diablo has been ignoring the deliciousness of said chicken.

This morning she was perusing the selection of my garden and its fallen tomatoes and was selecting her breakfast from bugs under the oak tree. 

Our chicken reminds me of the hen from the children’s book Rosie’s Walk.  Our dog is the fox.  In the book Rosie takes quite a perilous walk about the farm with the fox always hiding in the bushes watching the chicken. 

Our chicken is brave.

And bold. 

And perhaps a little oblivious.
 

Just like Rosie...  So that shall be her name. 

RA, TP, and Hydrocortisone Cream

“Keep your love for one another at full strength, because love covers a multitude of sins.”  1 Peter 4:8

 

In celebration of Mother’s Day this week, and a lack of progress in my book writing endeavor, I have decided to reactivate my blogging in hopes my writing will bring enjoyment to someone.  Me.  You.  Anyone??  Plus, I need to chronicle these stories in case I forget in my old age.  

Anyway, as stated before, I grew up thinking I never wanted children.  And some days I’m still right.  There was no lovey dovey feeling when they handed me my first writhing child, but as luck would have it they’ve grown on me.  Good thing, huh?  I blame endless entertainment as the bond that holds us all together.  

About a month ago, one of my children, who will remain nameless to protect the innocent, had a serious case of the RA*.  In babies, they call it diaper rash, but since he hasn’t seen a diaper in eons, I’m calling it the adult version:  red, chapped, whatever you want to call it, it’s not good! 

This was not the first time inadequate wiping had reared its ugly head, so I had showed him previously my face wipes that he could use to help clean himself up if he suspected the job was too much for toilet paper to handle.  They’re the cheap face wipes from the dollar store, but they contain aloe and are better than dry paper on an already tender crack.  And they won’t set you on fire like baby wipes. 

Not that I know personally.

Okay, maybe I do…

Maybe RA runs in the family. 

Said child had complained at bedtime of pain, burning, overall agitation, and restlessness due to the RA.  I tried everything I knew to help make him comfortable, but nothing was working.  I finally suspected stalling tactics to keep from going to bed, but when he came to me the third time flopping around and actually crying real tears, I knew there was more to the story. 

I asked him what he’d done.  He said he’d used some wipes.  Which wipes?  I asked. 

These…. 

Clorox wipes. 

So child ended up taking a shower about 11PM, got reslathered with the A+D ointment, and finally stopped being hysterical and went to bed. 

Nobody died. 

But good advice would be not to use Clorox wipes as butt wipes.  Just saying.

*****

We went out of town last weekend and stayed in a hotel for two nights.  On the morning after our first hotel stay, I have this conversation with the same child:

“Boy, that new toothpaste of yours really works!  My teeth even feel clean this morning!” he says.

“I know.  I got a whitening one this time and it really cleans your teeth good.”

“I don’t think I even need to brush my teeth this morning, they’re so clean!” he says.

“You still have to brush your teeth.”

“But they’re still clean!” he says.

“No, really, you still have to brush your teeth.”

(Goes into bathroom where father is brushing his own teeth.)

Overheard from father, “Hey, let me see that….  That’s NOT toothpaste!!” 

And what was it? 

Hydrocortisone cream.

That’s why I love them.  Because they make me laugh!

 *Red ass.  That’s what we call it in my house, although we usually use the abbreviation.