You’ve heard the old saying, “No matter how bad things are, they can always get worse.” I know it’s true because I learned the hard way that dung means duck. You see, I learned the hard way that when you combine rebellious chickens, flatulent donkeys who sport a wicked sense of humor, dark of night in the high desert, and a man in a hurry, you get a life-lesson to remember. I think I need to explain.
It all started with “the girls” not wanting to go to bed. Just like kids at bed time desperate to stay up lest they miss something, the chickens wouldn’t go into their coop when I was ready to close the doors and call it a night. Some went in and a few didn’t … by the time I cornered the renegades the insiders bobbed back outside to see what all the commotion was about! It was funniest home videos on Animal Planet and I was the Gumba doing the prat falling! I finally gave up and went back to the house, planning to return after dark to close and secure all the coop’s doors and windows.
On my way back to the house, just outside the fenced chicken yard between the yard and the walkway, I spied in the semi-light a fresh “IED” booby-crap laid-out with wicked cunning right in the approach to the entry gate. Now the donkeys have not yet mastered actual ‘explosive’ devices, but this booby-crap placement was nevertheless located with all the cunning of a Taliban terrorist. The gooey mess was an invitation to lose one’s sole!
Congratulating myself for foiling the donkey’s plot, I made mental note to skirt the booby-crap when I returned in the dark later to lock-down the chickens.
Those city mice among us, accustomed to street lights, store front lighted displays, and all the ambient light of Gotham City may not be able to conger up a mental picture of darkness of night in the New Mexico high desert. Think of burying your face in a Scottie’s coat–a Scottie ungroomed with a Fala-length coat–and then opening your eyes. It’s that black … and blacker. In this country, if your Scottie’s not a smiler, you can’t find him in the dark.
Now, I understand nighttime at Las Golondrinas is braille-time outside, and I was feeling pretty smug remembering to dodge the donkey booby-crap as I groped my way from the walkway toward the chicken yard gate. My plan was to cut-off my usual approach to the chicken gate, staying closer to the old cottonwood tree, thus avoiding Merton’s booby-crap.
“This isn’t so bad,” I whispered almost aloud. “I can out-think donkeys, by god, and save the chickens and my sole inspite of them!”
That’s when life sent me this rude lesson for living: crap at your feet isn’t bad as the duck at your head–or, said another way: watching for dung does not exempt learning to duck! Oh, I cleverly avoided Merton’s ‘IED’ booby-crap, alright. Saved my soles. But I was scalped by broken-ended cottonwood branches in the dark! I was cut and scraped from my forehead to the backside of my skull. Looked like a Texas Chainsaw Massacre victim by the time I got back to the house.
Of course, “the girls” were sound asleep on their perch in the chicken coop when the scalping took place, and I’m guessing Merton was on his back laughing his ‘ass’ off up in the donkey barn while I matriculated into the school of hard knocks care of the old cottonwood tree I’ve since nicknamed, Geronimo.
But I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t be surprised to see me walking through a mine field of donkey poop while flailing my arms and hands in the air around my head like a wild man swatting Tsetse flies. I’ve learned when it’s time to watch your feet you better not forget your head, ’cause crap at your feet isn’t half as bad as the duck at your head. Things can get worse. Dung can mean duck!
Joseph Harvill, publisher Great Scots Magazine
Your comment on finding a Scottie in the dark brought back memories of Maggie, Queen of All She Surveyed. My husband had trucked in many hundreds of tons of dirt in an effort to turn our sandy riverbed backyard into something that would grow grass as opposed to stickers of every kind known to nature and then some. Before the dirt could be spread, there was a garage to be built so the huge piles of dirt became known as Maggie’s Moors. Weeds grew on them and Maggie would spend every hour she could going over and over the Moors in hopes of finding lizards, toads and the occasional rabbit. She refused to come inside. Many nights at 2 or 3 in the morning I would be outside, listening for her snuffling over the Moors. When I’d think I found her - a darker patch on the dark hillside - I would beg and pled with the Queen to please come inside to get some water and rest. After minutes of begging without any response, I’d turn around and she’d be sitting behind me, with her head tilted to the side, waiting for me to walk her to the house. Hunting Scotties are night requires a good flashlight.