As hard as we might wish, life does not always give us do-overs. Sunday evening, relaxed from the wine and relief at the end of the septic tank saga, I fell asleep in the chair. The phone woke me, thankfully, at eight...it was full dark. I threw on my lighted hat and dashed out to put everyone to bed. The chickens had tucked themselves in and all that was needed was to shut their doors, and then get down and get the goats and Poppy into their rooms. It wasn't until Monday morning that I realized I hadn't brought Stumpy in for the night. Normally, she's the first one I tend to in the evening and I guess I thought I'd already done that when I headed back to the house. I started praying that she was all right. The Night Thing that had crawled under her playpen left me a trail of feathers to let me know there would be no redemption for my lapse in responsibility. There will be no more three-note "Yoo-OOO-who!" in the morning from the laundry room to let me know I'm running a little late. "I'm sorry" are just meaningless words.
And the septic tank saga was not finished. Smelly Mel pulled in at ten-thirty with a backhoe and a dump truck full of rock, along with a helper with pickup full of pipe. Keith's backhoe is still in the front yard, and Mel came barreling out of his truck, wanting to know what was going on. I loathe confrontation and had been dreading even getting a phone call. I told him I had called innumerable times, and he came in and called his own number, doubting my word. (It's still disconnected.) He asked what Keith had done; I told him, and he said if that was all I'd wanted, he would have done it for a thousand dollars less and he would have used bigger, better rock, etc., etc., etc. Then he told me he didn't want to haul the rock back across the county to Georgetown and he would dump it here for three hundred dollars. If it had been smaller rock, I would have bought it for the driveway, but his load was not useful for anything. He departed, but we did not part as friends.
It was not a good day.