Some notes. There is grass now, and at 5 p.m., as the chickens are making their way to the roost, Simon and Lulu and Fanny head up the pasture to the top of the hill, where they spend most of the night. No more hay from the barn, and this is an especially easy time to have donkeys. Their hooves have been trimmed, they have their rabies shots, their teeth have been floated and filed. All they need to do until October is graze and come down for water and attention. I am thinking of my next children’s book, which I am calling “Simon Says Good Night.”
Maude, the speckled gray and white hen, was found dead in her roost this morning, she died while laying an egg, which happens sometimes. We went over to Jenna Woginrich’s for a really great dinner, met her new goat Bonita, and got another Hen, which Maria promptly named Shirley Partridge. Fran is holding her own. It is a treat for me to talk to Jenna. I think I move pretty fast, but I am standing still next to Jenna, who has mastered yet another farming thing – goats and their milk and cheese – in what seems like a few hours. We have a lot in common, including the fact that we are both strange.
Tomorrow, we are thinking of going to see the Farrelly Brothers interpretation of “The Three Stooges.” I remember them well.
Simon liked the rinse better than the filing. Ken Norman and Gil spend a long day riding around to farms to treat horses and donkeys’ mouths. This means sticking your hands deep into the throats of large animals with bites strong enough to mash your hand or arm up in a flash. I love seeing the way they talk to the donkeys, calm them, and just plunge in. Where would those of us who love horses or donkeys be without them? I can’t imagine. I wouldn’t want to be the donkey here, but even more, I could not be Ken and Gil. I have to say they love it, though and it is always such a pleasure seeing and talking with them. And I am grateful to them for letting me show their ancient and valuable work.
Gil, the donkey dentist and Ken Norman, our farrier, came by the farm today to check on Simon, Lulu and Fanny’s teeth. It is amazing to see how an equine dentist and a farrier handle three large creatures, stick their hands down their throats, struggle to not be bit, and are loving and calm and very competent. I took some photos I am excited about and will post them on Facebook as soon as I get the chance. It is always a privilege to watch Ken Norman work with the donkeys. We learn so much every time. I don’t think I would want to be an equine dentist, though.
They puffed up their feathers and put their butts in the air.
They were a little confused.
“Are there any other chickens with ideas?
the Chicken of the Left asked the president of the cable news network.
“No,” he said. “There is only a left and a right. And instead of eating bugs,”
he said, gravely, “you will argue with each other, on every idea, and every issue,
from dawn to dusk. And you will never agree. And you cannot listen or consider any
other ideas but your own. And we will make a lot of money putting your arguments on
television, because people like to be angry. And they like to be self-righteous. And feel superior.
It’s called politics.”
“But what about the other ideas of the world?,” asked the Chicken Of The Right.
“You’re not listening, which is good,” said the network president. “There are no other ideas. Other ideas are called
communism. Or socialism. Or anarchism. Or liberals. Progressives. Libertarians. Bad. They are very bad, and you must never mention them or any real ideas. It upsets people, they go watch reality shows if you agree.”
“This is worse than eating bugs,” said the Chicken Of The Left. “What problems can we solve?”
“You are not listening again,” said the executive, “a good sign.” Problems must never be solved. Don’t you get it? Chickens Of the Left and Chickens Of the Right argue things. They make arguments. They do not solve things. People who do that are called teachers. Or librarians. Or professors. Or writers. We don’t like them. They are bad, too. You never resolve things, you cluck right over one another. Your job is to keep people upset and angry so they will watch every day and be more upset and angry than the day before.”
“We thought commentators informed people…” mumbled both chickens.
The network president got angry. “Hey, Walter Cronkite is dead, gone, in case you didn’t get the memo. Think World Wrestling Federation when you think of news from Washington. Think Killer Kowalski, The Mask…”
“So, let me get this straight,” said the Chicken Of The Right. “We get all these seeds and worms and garbage all day to just sit here and cluck and peck at each other and never listen to each other, ever, or ever agree or talk about any real ideas, is that right.”
“Yes,” said the executive, “now you are listening. Just ruffle feathers. But don’t ever listen again after this.”
“It’s really very simple,” said the Chicken Of the Left, and the Chicken Of the Right, who both understood the idea of feather-ruffling, and understanding they would be listening to one another for the last time.
“We just go on television and be chickens.”
“Yes,” said the network president. “Only not that smart or useful. Chickens actually lay eggs. Commentators do nothing. You’re hired. Start clucking.”
