Our dear sweet Papa treated me this afternoon to a little alone time. He came in from his office, declared that it was “pool time!!!!” and after much squealing and pushing and “mama where’s my swimsuit”, “honey, don’t forget the sunscreen.” giggling and door-slamming they were off.
The house was blissfully quiet.
I got myself a popsicle, and prepared to sit (SIT!) and just surf and write and listen to all my backed up episodes of This American Life when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter…
Chickens were squawking in a way that even an untrained poulty farmer like myself recognized as, “COME QUICK!”
Remember Matilda? She’s a tricky one, that old gal. I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since that first time, and had long since given up on her.
Turns out she’s been around all along, and has four young-uns now.
As appalled as I was though, watching them tear up the grass, it was nothing compared to the complete and utter horror expressed by my gals.
Oh how I wish you could hear the clucking. It sounded something like,
“Have you ever?”
“Not in all my born days!”
“Well there goes the neighborhood.”
“It isn’t bad enough that we have to put up with boys chasing us all day? Now we have to share the yard with these no good punks too?”
“What has the yard come to?”
Every now and again, one of the girls would gather herself up and run at the armadillos, her sisters squawking and flapping her on.
And then just as she got near the snorting hard-shelled masses, she’d turn tail, and run back to her posse, swearing under her breath. It was like a real live game of chicken!
The girls would huddle up again, drawing their feathery petticoats about them, discuss things over and send a new spokeswoman in to tell the miscreants to hit the road.
The armadillos, like rowdy teenagers skateboarding in the parking lot of the BINGO hall, could not have cared less what the old biddies thought of them or their fun. They burrowed and snorted on.
This went on for quite some time until finally, apparently, the last straw was laid down.
All four armadillo backsides where turned toward the ladies in unison. Then, one unceremoniously flipped shell and showed the old gals his boy bits.
My girls, shocked out of their bird brains, marched off in a ruffled huff and spent the rest of the afternoon clucking their disapproval from the bushes.
I spent the rest of the afternoon looking into live traps.
So much for peace and quiet.