Some Days Are Stones

Another early morning call.  "Hey, Tim!  How's our boy?"  Tim had phoned to let me know Eight Ball had just died.  My heart dropped like a rock.  It seemed the little kid had been fine during the night and had been taking milk, but then faded, went comatose, and died.  Tim, doing his best, had tried chest compression and mouth-to-nose breathing, but it didn't help.  I had thought Eight Ball was just a few days old; he was a couple of weeks old and I don't know how long he had been without nourishment when he was brought here.  In retrospect, we should have added molasses to Cindy's warm milk.  Severe dehydration can cause ketoacidosis and death; sometimes an infusion of high sugar can help.  No matter how many animals one has, the loss of a single one hurts.  Eight Ball wasn't mine.  It still hurts.

The storm was fierce and raging, rain pounding and wind roaring like a freight train most of the day.  At times, snow mixed with the rain but was quickly washed away.  The front porch was wet all the way to the door, the stacked firewood soaked.  My bibbies were damp to the knee from rain blowing sideways.  The little bird-brained chickens had enough sense to stay in their coops, else they'd have been plastered up against the fencing like posters on a wall.  I got word that Clay's dad had died.  Due to a prior engagement, I had to turn down a visit from one of Steve's cousins.  A day that started badly just kept getting worse.

It's still raining this morning, but not as heavily.  From a walk around inside the house, looking out the windows, I don't see any tree damage from the wind (which has stopped).  I'm holding on to the hope that today will be a good day.