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."