Late Night Snacking
This morning my father informed me that the neighbor’s dog managed to bull its way into the chicken pen and summarily slaughter every one of poor creatures. I wouldn’t go so far as to refer to the chickens as “my parent’s beloved chickens,” but I would say that the situation borders on tragic. My stepmother lamented the fact that the chickens not only provided tasty eggs, kept the insects down, and caused snakes to give the place a wide birth, but they were also kind of nice to just have around. In fact they’d been around for years.
A few weeks earlier, a couple of the chickens had been mauled to death by the same dog and Dad had visited the owners of the beast to inform them of its criminal behavior. Actually, in all reality, the dog was just doing what dogs do, the human half of the equation being the actual criminal element. The response that Dad received was primarily one of indifference.
I think this conversation with my parents is what has caused me to not be able to sleep. Initially, I went to bed early and settled down with a book. Feeling restless I got up, went down stairs and pilfered the refrigerator looking for something, but not knowing what. I settled for a strawberry yogurt and a handful of cashews. I then went back up to bed and pulled out some of my stories with a plan of doing some editing and notating problem areas. Nothing like reading my own stuff to put me in that slumberous mode. But even that didn’t seem to help, so an hour later I came back down and resorted to food once again. My choices were somewhat limited: left over Chinese food from last night, or breaded baked tilapia. Since I had already worked on the shrimp fried rice earlier this evening, I settled for the tilapia. I briefly thought of preparing some tea, but then pushed that out of my mind.
After the murderous rampage inflicted upon the chickens that left not a single one alive, my dad kept one of the poor deceased birds to use for bait. He put it in the now vacant chicken coop the night before last and lay in wait with shotgun in hand. Keep in mind that the old man is in his seventies and an all-nighter in March in Central Idaho is a cold proposition. Anyway, the killer dog—a large breed mix of some type—paid a visit at around 4:30 am, entered the coop for the dead chicken and made its exit. He didn’t get too far, but I’ll spare you the bloody details. One of the reasons that this is upsetting for me is that I know that Dad hated killing that dog for what is essentially the recalcitrance of the dog’s owners. My dad cared more about that dog than its owners, and he is the one that ended up having to shoot it.
Looking at the empty plate that once held the baked tilapia, I’m wishing for something else to eat that I can’t quite put my thumb on. I think it wise that I settle for a glass of water and go back to bed. Perhaps I’ll give the editing another try.