Wednesday, May 2, 2012
I do not own my life.
This thought flashed through my mind early Sunday morning. I was getting ready to head out to the local twice-a-year poultry and small animal sale to look for guinea keets. Since it was in the low 20s and since the sale is held in a soccer field, down a bumpy dirt road, I thought I would wear my hiking boots instead of my clogs. That's what I thought, anyway. I was standing in the doorway of my closet holding a boot in one hand and the bootlace in the other. I had forgotten that Scrappy had - in a fit of something - peed in my boot-holder and saturated my bootlaces. I had pulled it out and washed it. Then the cats had chewed off the ends, which left a mass of white filaments. I could not relace my boot. I could not wear my boot. The animals have taken over. Luckily, I managed to find my Doc Martens and was able to go out at the crap of dawn, drive a half hour with Kay in order to shuffle around in the cold and not find any guinea keets. My life is like that.