I did not even take the time to make myself coffee, also I did not take the time to feed the cat. This was apparently a problem.
Scatt usually comes to the gardens with me. He's my little garden buddy. In the early years when he used to care he would even scare away the snakes for me. Today, though, I feel like he came to the garden just to yell at me for not feeding him before starting my morning. Sensing that I wasn't going to drop what I was doing to trek back in just to feed him, the jackhole resigned himself to staying with me.While weeding I noticed Scatt licking himself, or maybe eating grass - I wasn't sure, but it was repetitive and almost frantic. Then I realized I smelled a sicky-sweet smell. "What weed was that?" was my first thought. It was a familiar, not unpleasant, but somewhat unsettling smell. While those brief thoughts were bouncing around in my noggin it occurred to me that Scatt was absorbed in his fetish of licking ANTS! The little shit was licking ants! I had observed him doing this only once before and was easily able to redirect him. This time, though, it was all about the ants! I had to physically remove him from the spot. He proceeded to flop down next to me on my garden towel, purring as loudly as Scott's rototiller. He continued to flop back and forth, whoring himself for any attention I would give him. He tried again to go back to the ants and again had to be removed.
My conclusion- my sweet little kitty boy was flying high on an ecstasy type trip!
I finally got the jackhole settled down and continue my task of weeding the garlic. Just short of frantically, Scott calls me to the chicken coop - HURRY! FAST! My mind is racing and I'm trying to keep my short little legs from tripping over the fencing, clumps of weeds, dogs, other chickens, and goodness knows what else between the garden and the chicken coop - at the complete other side of the property. Before I could get my stumpyness to the other side of the homestead I implored hubby to use his words, "what's going on?!" "Baby!" is the only response I get. Being the ever-emotional husbandry pragmatist I am, I ask, "dead or alive?" Thankfully and miraculously his response was alive!
I say miraculously because the wee little chickie was out of the cozy little crate nest I had made for Mama. The little poop-head could easily have gotten too chilled and died, got eaten by any of the other chickens in the coop, or, as hubby opened the coop door, trampled to death by the dozens of eager chicken feet waiting to get out.
We ogled and ahhed over the little cutie and got it nestled back in under Mama's warm and safe fluff. I did pick away the tiniest bit of shell on it's emerging sibling. And, in fact by the time I secured the holes in the door of the crate, worked a little more in the garden, and took a bit of a break to write a little, the next wee little chickie had hatched.
Today was a good day. 
