Minion

Running late yesterday (I know, what a surprise!), I found myself apologizing to all the critters as I hurried to throw down birdseed for the squirrels and turkeys (and wild birds, but they get just the leavings) and open coops and barn.  I'd already fed and watered dog and cats.  I suffer under the delusion that I'm in charge.  It's voluntary servitude, but servitude it is.  There isn't a one of the furred or feathered residents, wild and domestic, that wouldn't stand with paws, claws, or hooves on hip, look me in the eye and say, "You're not the boss of me!"  One yip from Good Queen Bess and I rush to open a door.  "Oh, you don't want to go out this door?  Would Your Highness prefer that door?"  I allow Celeste to herd me toward the treat bag and laugh as I do so, often several times a day.  I've found myself getting up from the milking stand to put down grain for the mice who gather with baleful stares should there be a lapse in the morning routine.  I might refer to "my" cats, "my" goats, etc., but in reality I am their minion, indentured from the start.  I wouldn't have it any other way.

Excuse me.  Bess just indicated she'd rather lie on the bed than under the desk and, being short and somewhat portly, she needs a boost.  I've got to go now, the Queen has spoken.