Due to my current semi-invalid state, I have donned my Crown of Delegation and sent my minions hither and there to keep the cogs and gears of my many rat cages in motion. Although I can tell the halflings do want to help, my entreaties are met with varying degrees of enthusiasm (or lack thereof). I am living in a House of Sighs (not to be confused with Venice’s bridge under which lovers will be assured eternal love if they kiss in a gondola at sunset).
Small tasks become the proverbial mountain out of a molehill whilst the larger ones that instill guilt through all my nether regions are eagerly taken up as if a gauntlet has been thrown. I’ll never understand men, whether they be three, fourteen, or forty four. But I digress.
Yesterday, I asked Young David to snap some shots of the lambs both for my own enjoyment (because I miss them something terrible) and yours. He came back with the following. Teenagers.
You think he’s happy with himself here? He just successfully moved my truck from the front of the house to the driveway. I’ll spare you the 201 photos he took of the precisely parked vehicle.
Like the rest of the family, the boy’s a ham. It’s a wonder they haven’t made sandwiches of us all.
David, sweetheart, child of my womb, joy of my declining years (that last one came from my grandmother; it was probably her second favorite phrase next to telling the mailman she only wanted checks and love letters), I asked for lamb photos. I think you’ve spent enough time around here to know these are chickens, roosters to be exact.
Now this one is a hen, though I have to say I like the composition of this shot. It’s rather artistic.
Nope, that’s a llama. Spartacus is doing a darned good job guarding the new babies. As an added bonus, he looks like he’s going to donate some nice fiber to the spinning cause after I wash it and pull out all the guard hair. I wonder if I can spin in my current physical condition. My right knee is still killing me and I’m getting a hypochondriacal suspicion my patella is fractured as well. (I go to the orthopedist this afternoon for appropriate ridicule.)
This knee-being-broken idea is probably just my resident paranoia, like when NBC’s David Bloom died of a pulmonary embolism in Iraq. I was sure any day one of my varicose veins was going to send a blood clot to my lungs, putting an end to my current life here on Earth but hastening my reincarnation as a duck.
Whoa, wait a minute, what do we have here? Lambs? Yes indeedy, it’s Sean and Katie. I guess two out of four ain’t bad. Maybe after I get my permanent cast today, I’ll be more comfortable venturing into the yard of divots, sand, and BB-like animal droppings and be able to take my own photographs.
Until then… any cast color suggestions?