Emma and the Headless Chicken

My life today at 10:12 a.m. in my little part of a flyover state.


I was in the middle of cleaning, taking advantage of that zing of energy I get in the morning, hurrying before the zing went zang.  Tomorrow two of our grandchildren will pay us a visit. (It’s fall break in my  part of the flyover state.) 


The telephone rang.  Caller ID showed “Happy Hollow Vet.  Late yesterday afternoon, my husband had dropped our dog Emma off for a “deep” cleaning of her teeth and she was to be put into a twilight sleep for the procedure.


Me:  “Hello?”


HH:  “Hi.  How are you?  We have Emma under anesthesia right now and the doctor has noticed a mass on her right rear leg.  He said that he could also remove the growth as long as she is under anesthesia.  It would just be $75 extra.”


Me:  “Mmmmm. Let me check with my husband.”


I opened the kitchen door and stepped out onto the porch.  


“Carl!” I called.  (We have four acres -- he could be anywhere.)


He was within the sound of my voice.


He was under the carport, his back to me.  He turned.  


“Yes?”


In his hands was a headless chicken he had just finished plucking.  


I knew I had come a long way in our country living experiment when I managed to gulp once, ignoring the naked, headless chicken, and say, “Emma has a mass. The vet wants to know if he should remove it while she’s still out.”


“Yes.”


I gave the vet’s office the green light and returned to my cleaning, trying to recover any zing I had left.  


Carl continued plucking.


There will be no picture on today’s posting.  I leave it to your imagination.