Whacked

Turns out "whack/ed" is one of those multiple-meaning words that happens to fit my reaction to the time change, which, in my opinion, is whacky (crazy).  It has definitely thrown my system out of whack (order), and I know for sure that I'm whacked (exhausted), probably because I'm up and drinking coffee at the new 2 a.m.  And that's all I'm going to say about that.

I don't know when Missy had her last good meal, but she was in the barn morning and night and emptied her bowl at breakfast and dinner yesterday.  Poor little waif.  She makes me think of Wheeler, the orphan boy in "The Mudlark" (1950, Irene Dunn, Alec Guinness, Andrew Ray), sitting under the table stuffing food into his mouth.

Another feline visitor was not so welcome.  Twice yesterday I heard the chickens go into a panic.  For birds who are normally silent, they were screaming at the top of their lungs.  I know their new cage is secure, but still.  The first time, Bess and I went out to investigate, and a cat (not Missy) took off running.  It's pretty ambitious for a house cat to look at a full-size bird and think "chicken dinner."  Bessie caught the scent and charged off to war.  It was a mistake on my part to let her come with me because my old girl could hardly make it back up the hill.  Back at the house, she flopped down and was nearly comatose the rest of the day.  It scared me that she might have a heart attack   The second time the chickens fired off, I was careful not to let the dog come with.  Fortunately, she never heard the birds.  It was even hard to wake her up at bedtime.  She was whacked.