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| Maybe a commemorative stamp will make me feel better about my situation. |
It's time for another round of Deal or Ordeal!
You may remember that my last house sitting gig involved a galling band
of neurotic animals,
cleaning animal waste off of a lot of unusual places (upstairs
carpet,
laundry room sink), and getting locked out of the house on a Saturday
morning. So when my neighbors asked if my roommate and I could care for
their garden and chickens while they went out of town, we said...sure,
no problem! We don't even have to set foot in the house, I thought. Piece. Of. Cake.
Let me tell you how well that played out...
Deal: Water
the
garden and care for the chickens while your awesome neighbors (the ones
who sleep in a giant teepee in their front yard) go to Burning Man. You get all the garden
produce you want, fresh eggs, and a boatload of good neighborly
feelings.
Ordeal: On
the fifth day, you walk across the street- not into an
idyllic land flowing with kale, fresh eggs and the contented clucks of
urban
chickens- but into a CHICKEN MASSACRE. Two of the six chickens lie
motionless on the
other side of the chain link gate. They have not just fallen over from
heat exhaustion or food poisoning; they are mangled, bloody, and one of
them no
longer has a head.
The
remaining chickens seem to be in a state of shock, wandering the yard,
clucking softly, unsure of their next moves. You join them in this
state, trying to fulfill your original duties as responsible chicken
sitter. You fill
water containers, check the coop for eggs, and step over bloody
carcasses four or five times before realizing I have to do something about this! There are two dead chickens lying on the ground, and I have to do something about it!
So
you leave the yard, start walking down the street, and call your mom.
She will recommend that you call your friend
the forensic scientist since she is used to encountering repulsive
things and properly
disposing of them. You call, and she graciously agrees to drive across
town to help you out. She also recruits her husband, who has dealt with
dead chickens before.
In the meantime, you walk over to the neighborhood
restaurant where your roommate works, sit yourself down at the front
counter,
and share your sad story with anyone who will listen. Soon enough,
without even
ordering, you are presented with a hard cider, cheesy sticks, and an
overflowing dish
of pasta. You make friends with the regulars eating burgers a few seats
away,
chat with your former bosses’ wife (this is a small town), and
carbo-load your cares away. You remain in this happy state of avoidance
until you receive the text informing you that your friends have arrived
at the site of the massacre and the inevitable is before you.
The inevitable involves the following: a pair of
rubber gloves, heavy duty trash bags, a can of wasp spray and an iron
stomach. The forensic scientist's husband declares the cause of death:
raccoon, and carries the body bags to the trash cans in the ally. You
close the lid and thank your friends profusely for saying yes to one of
the worst questions asked in friend history: Do you want to come over
and help me remove some wasp-infested chicken carcasses? When all is
said and done, you return home, close the door, and vow never to house
sit again.
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| Epilogue: I opened this card from my cousin right before I went across the street and discovered the chickens. "I thought I would send you a smile today," she said. It wasn't until later, while on the phone with my mom again, that I looked down and realized how apt it was. And, as the card suggests, I laughed. And then I laughed again. |
