By: Jefferson Weaver
The second alarm went off, and I reluctantly, slowly rolled out of bed.
The day started as they almost all do: let the animals out, accomplish the morning ablutions, make the coffee, say the first morning prayers, turn on the news, check the web. Touch base with the early risers or late workers on my beat. After an hour or so, as the roosters crow and the geese gossip and the dogs finish their first perimeter check of the day, I woke my bride. We had our joint prayer time, she growled at me for being a morning person, she fed the baby squirrel, and we fed the dogs, cats, poultry and livestock together.
I gave her one last kiss, reassured Toni and William that I would try to get finished with work in time for us to have at least a little walk around the farm, and I headed for the office.
Not in the car – but down the hallway to my home office.
Call it Corona, call it COVID-19, call it whatever – working from home is just one of the odd adjustments I’m struggling with.
It’s not that Miss Rhonda and I have too much time with each other; we have worked together before, even commuting to and from work together, so we are among those few truly blessed couples who can and do respect each other’s space and jobs. We are so attuned to being together but apart that there was at least one time I almost left the office without her (and she did the same with me a few years later.) Indeed, when I freelanced full time, the office was at home. Our family has always been good at adjusting.
One good thing about this modern plague is that it forced me to get my home office, called the Blue Room, operational. That was project No. 2,467 (or was it 2,468? I disremember) and was easily postponed when there were things like fences, ditches, pipes, floors, and other more pressing problems. The components were there, but I just hadn’t taken the time to do what I needed to make it functional.
That’s not the case now. I have two windows, a radio, and decent cellular service from my comfortable chair. It’s a bright, cheerful room, and I rarely even know I am in the same house with my wife except when a fresh cup of coffee or a plate of sandwiches magically appears on my big desk. I can take a break every once in a while and simply stare out the window at my horses, the kittens playing in the sunshine, the goats chasing the dogs and being chased in turn by the geese, and just enjoy the little things in life.
Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? It usually is – until Mrs. Roo jumps on my desk and does what chickens do, or until the Bucky the Goat clatters down the hallway like a herd of psychotic bison.
Now, to be fair, Mrs. Roo is likely the best almost house-trained chicken that has ever been. She may be the only almost house-trained chicken that has ever been, but we needn’t go into that. She spends most of her time in the yard, catching bugs, laying eggs and avoiding the romantic inclinations of Mr. Roo, who is often more interested in his side-chick, Dahlia.
Mrs. Roo is a homebody, and prefers to spend her time inside. This can lead to issues when I’m on the phone and she decides to perch on my knee and discuss Roo’s infidelity, which is at least 50 percent of time. Roo (and sometimes his nemesis, Doodle) have a tendency to stand outside the window by my desk and dispute her accusations at the same time, although they could be attempting to woo her outside.
“Pardon my chickens,” I often have to tell a caller. “They’re having issues.”
Much of the time, however, Mrs. Roo stares at herself in the mirror in the corner, turning this way and that, either admiring herself or challenging the chicken in the mirror. I have to assure her that no, her spring feathers do not make her butt look big, and yes, she is pretty. Chickens have fragile egos, you know, and a century-old dressing mirror has no mercy.
That mirror occasionally leads to other interruptions to an otherwise professional-ish environment.
Take Bucky the goat, for example.
Whilst his consort Sally sees no reason to venture farther than Rhonda’s lap, or maybe the kitchen, Bucky has the heart of an explorer.
If a door is open, Bucky must see what is behind it. There’s always a chance of something edible being hidden there – grain, maybe some lettuce, a hungry tyrannosaurus rex, an antique book, Lifesavers, an electric cord. Plus he is a curious goat, with the judgment of a toddler jacked up on chocolate, so he simply must explore everything.
The first time Bucky came back to the Blue Room, he stood in the door like Indiana Jones staring at a 2,000 year old room of gold and jewels.
He worked his cud two or three times, then tried to casually make his way inside, seeming to ignore the shelf of books passed down through a couple hundred years of my family.
I was prepared for this, however, and a quick pop on the rump with a stick, followed by the universal warning “Maaaah!” from his male human, made him quickly spin around in faux innocence – only to encounter the Goat in the Mirror.
Bucky knows what other goats look like (after all, he has Sally), but the goat in the mirror shocked him. In the words of the songwriter, he didn’t know whether to flip or fly, and it hung him up.
Bucky turned his head. The Mirror Goat turned his head. Bucky stamped his feet and snorted. The Mirror Goat stamped his feet, but didn’t make a sound. Bucky rolled back his lip to get a better scent of the Mirror Goat, and it did the same.
I knew what was coming.
Bucky went into the “War Dance,” standing on his hind feet, then turning his horned head at a 90-degree angle for a pile-driving headbutt guaranteed to deter anything but the most dangerous predator (or a goose). The Mirror Goat did the same.
Bucky was infuriated, so he snorted and took two steps back to better ram the interloper.
“Hold on just a minute,” I told the person on the phone. “I have to catch my goat.”
“Pardon?” she said. “You have to do what?”
“I have to – Bucky! MAAAAAH!”
Mrs. Roo naturally chose that time to jump on the desk and stare at the telephone. I can testify that an Otterbox case is not only water- and shock-proof, but it’s chicken-resistant as well.
Another swat to the rump sent Bucky down the hallway and out the door, where he told the entire yard about how he had bested the Mirror Goat in a battle to the (near) death.
I shooed the chicken away, apologized to the caller, and went back to our interview.
Eventually, the Coronapocalypse is going to be finished, and we’ll be back to normal. I’ll be back spending all my time in my little grey-beige box with no windows, saying goodbye to my dogs in the morning as I steal one last kiss from my wife. The door to the Blue Room will stay closed more than it is open.
And I am sure Bucky will still be bragging about the battle of the Mirror Goat, and Mrs. Roo will still be wondering if this spring’s feathers make her butt look big.
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