Conversation with the King

A friend of mine, a former band mate - no! we aren't getting the old band back together, stop it! - and I were talking about how different the person we think we are and the person we are is. (Is that a great sentence or are it?) For example, he said Netflix knows his taste better than he does. How many of us would make a top ten list including films we have only seen once, while films we've watched over and over wouldn't even make the top 11? And I would never admit that I really like the novels of J. K. Rowling. I am much more of a Faulkner man, although I have only read him on tape. Now I am trying to decide if it is better to strive to be the person I think I am or to embrace the person I am. This discussion reminded me of a post from the first year of this blog.
This just occurred to me: if you are writing a dating profile for match dot com, describe the person you think you are. Nobody wants to date the person you actually are. Sorry, but think of it this way: if the pictures of hambergers at fast food restaurants looked like the actual hambergers, nobody would eat them. Don't let that happen to you.

The former band mate's name is Space King Midas aka King Space Midas.

The Horses I Found

The two closer horses belong here. That's Athos and Intrepid. The reddish brown horse and the grey horse on the right and in the field are strays.

Tossie and Treppie poo (that's what they call eachother) were excited to see these horses. I was worried because the were headed toward Scenic Byway highway 55.

 These boys were pretty happy to be free but stressed out to be on opposite sides of a barbwire fence.

I called Jenny in California. We were both at a loss at how to keep these guys safe. As you can see in this photo I figured something out. I went to a neighbor to see if she had an idea as she rides everyday. But she wasn't home. On my way home, the horses started walking in the right direction - away from the highway. But then they stopped. I grabbed a tie-down strap from the back of my rig (that's what I call my car now that I live on a farm). I approached the chestnut horse on foot and placed the strap over his head. Then he followed me home like a well trained dog. The gray followed him. Together, we walked into the arena. Meanwhile, Jenny made some phone calls and discovered the owners.


We thought we might keep them. One of the women Jenny talked to indicated that these horse might not be wanted. Unfortunately, the teenage boy who called to arrange pick up said that they did want them. But they sure look pretty in our pasture.

Here is the teenage boy and a young woman claiming the horses. It took them about a half hour to catch them. But then they hopped on and rode off into the sunset. Except that the sun sets in the west and they went east. Stupid kids. Don't know their cardinal directions.

Blood and Feathers

Yesterday I came home and saw Reuben Jr, Reuben's eldest (only) son, walking by the new chicken coop.  I was thinking, "we should just call him Jr." Then I noticed something confounding: he looked a lot like Reuben Sr. Several characteristics separated the two birds (Yes, chickens are birds): Reuben has large areas of white between his black nape and tail. Jr has black speckles and quite a bit of yellow in the same area. Reuben has long spurs and Jr has short ones. Jr makes up for his tiny tools with a larger comb and a spectacular tail. The biggest difference is that Reuben will let you walk up to him and Jr wont.
So, I walked up to the rooster. He did not attempt to run away. He had long spurs. Quick quiz: which rooster is this? Correct. Reuben. He had blood streaks on his back and wings. He had scabs on his comb. Apparently an unsanctioned cock fight happened while I was at school. Again, I was at school. I attended graduate critiques between 8 - 10 and immediately following the crits, I met with two colleagues at *Big City Coffee for breakfast. There were many witnesses.

Reuben appeared healthy otherwise. He was hopping onto fence posts and crowing. He was foraging. I half expected to find Jr dead, lying in a pool of blood. I found him looking the same as ever. I have yet to get close enough to see if he was injured.

Update: I saw Jr. His right leg and spur are completely bloody. Reuben did not show up for breakfast. When I found him he was sitting statue still in the pasture. I thought he had died standing. He moved when I approached but he was beaten to a pulp; covered in blood. I tried to catch him. Failed. I tried to catch Jr. I shut him in the coop with the hens then tried to catch him. He went berserk. I grabbed his tail (see photo) and he screamed. Before I could get a grip on his back his tail expatriated from Jr's body. Not sure what to do next but I loaded the gun.

Put Bullet on Reuben watch

Gotta go. Horses running free. Not ours.

Zachary

We buried Zachary Cochin Rooster Hunter today. He was a good rooster. He was a gentleman rooster; always waited for the hens to eat before he would.
Not long ago he was found hiding behind a nest box. Upon further inspection blood was decorating his already blood red comb. All efforts were made to encourage him to rejoin the flock proved futile. His son or nephew, or maybe both, pecked him mercilessly. His time had come. Zachary had to move. For his safety, Mr. Rooster-Hunter was placed in protective custody in the tack room. His end loomed. Today he left us. He is now with Rin Tin Tin, Lassies 3 through 7, Adam Yauch, Abraham Lincoln and others.

Zachery: Rooster, father, lover, friend. He is survived by all manner of relatives: sister/daughters, nephew/sons, daughter/wives. He will be missed.

Neighbors

John and Pat live next door. They are married and have been that way for years. They are opposites. One is a man and the other a woman. One friendly and positive. The other strains to be friendly but does not bother with positive. To her - now you know which is which - being positive would just be unrealistic. She can't lie to herself or to her young, good looking, neighbors (her inner thoughts not mine).

Every project we have undertaken at the farm has been universally admired (lauded, celebrated) by John. Pat thinks that each attempt is futile: every nail a waste of iron, every watt of electricity flowing through  the fence a waste of sun shine,  and every armed-gard a waste of food and air. No chicken coop known can keep the chickens from their inevitable demise at the jaws of Mr. Fox or Mrs. Raccoon or Brother Coyote. "You wont have chickens for long," she frowned.

Yesterday she pointed to Jenny's prized Cochin bantams and asked, "Are those special chickens of just regular chickens?" When I told her the type she said, "We had some of those once." Me: "They are cute." Pat: "Yeah, they are cute. And vicious."