Trudy Andrew | Canadian Author

Tails From the Farm

What Next

Like most people, I have a morning routine, sort of. I usually make coffee, but not always. Usually check messages, texts, emails and Facebook, but not always, and I never let the indoor cat out, except for this one lapse of judgment. I’m getting ahead of myself, so I’m going to start at the beginning.
Though I so wanted to sleep in on a recent, cool, overcast morning, I couldn’t. The giant drink, I had before bed said so, and was rather annoying about it, too. There was no choice in the matter. Nature wasn’t calling, it was hollering, and couldn’t be ignored.
Once up, I generally stay up, and get on with the day. Deciding that this would be a ‘make coffee’ morning, I got that sorted then settled into my comfy easychair, to check on social media. As I sat there, a bit too absorbed in what I was doing, I was distracted by a sound. A rather unusual, somewhat unfamiliar sound, not unlike water dripping. Yet, I could see the kitchen sink from where I sat, and no telltale drips, fell from that tap. This drip was different, somehow more. Possibly, just possibly, it warranted investigation. To my chagrin, coffee was running along the countertop in front of the containers of flour, sugar and such. A wonky house is a pain, but when liquids travel like tiny rivers and don’t spread everywhere, one has to be grateful for a completely uneven house. When I say uneven, I mean those who built it, surely must not have used a tape measure or level, while doing so, ever. Hot coffee trailed along, meandering the length of the counter, past the containers and microwave, spilled over the edge, and somehow, dripped directly into the cat dish below. At least most of it did, which is pretty lucky, when you stop to think about it. Far less clean up that way.
As it turned out, I had forgotten to put the coffee pot into the maker to catch the fragrant, brown stream. Ridiculous and so absentminded, but it wasn’t something to cry over. A half a pot of coffee was better than none. Hubby would still get his morning fix, and if I was quick, he wouldn’t know about my little mistake. One less thing to tease me about.
On to the next thing.
For the last while, Bagheera the once feral, now indoor cat, has wanted to go outside. I say no. Sweetpea says no. Hubby totally caves. “Aw, but he wants to go out, just for a few minutes. He won’t go anywhere. We could easily stand with him, just for a few minutes.”
“No, don’t give in. He’s an indoor cat. He can stay inside.”
Those persuasive, ever so pitiful meows got to him, and for about a week or so, Bagheera has been going out for a few minutes in the morning. He nibbles grass, watches the goings on, then is brought back into the house. Hubby’s words (guilt trips) echoing in my head that morning, I concede to the demands of one, most annoying, black cat.
“Fine,” I sigh, as the cat reaches as high as he can, to the door handle. He doesn’t always go to the opening side of the door, but he does know what opens it. ‘You’ve got two minutes,” I warn as I open the door. He scoots out, as fast as was catly possible, just in case I changed my mind. So, according to hubby, Bagheera never goes anywhere, or leaves the sidewalk, yet that’s exactly what he did. Quick as could be, that black liar ran off (he said in cat that he would be good … he actually promised). Lies! So many lies! Away he went, across the driveway and under the truck, me right behind him. Ignoring my calls, he scoots under the truck, then runs out from under it, straight into the bush. Does he even turn an ear my way, acknowledge my very existence as I call, not even a little. Scooping him up in a moment of distraction, I was both amused and annoyed, when he had the nerve to growl and spit at me. End of outdoor privileges … immediately. Upon returning with the grumbling feline to the house, I made sure to let hubby know that all outside privileges were revoked.
Enough time spent with cat escapades, it was time to do chores. Horses were hollering, and there was a day to get at.
Horses were excited to see me. After feeding, I moved Spirit to fresh grass and did yardwork. A good deal of work was accomplished, yet a ‘things to do, before the snow flies’ list is still necessary. I also accidentally learned that, the electric fence is working … very well indeed. Come evening, Lucky Jim, our blind Appy, trotted across the pasture, straight to me without hesitation, and the day ended on a high note.
I knew I shouldn’t have a gargantuan glass of lovely beverage to drink late in the evening. I knew it as much, as well as I knew anything, yet still did. Three in the wee hours of the morning rolls around, and I’m being rudely nagged, about that oh so foolish decision. If it was later, I could hold out, but with so many hours of perfectly good sleep time ahead, there was no darn way. I couldn’t ignore natures call, or shout as it were. With a groan of frustration at my lack of will, where it comes to tasty beverages, I drag myself out of bed.
It seems, living with the same bedroom for over thirty years, counts for nothing. I still stub my toe as I stumble along in the dark. Hubby doesn’t skip a beat, and continues to blissfully snore, while I mutter all sorts of disparaging words under my breath.
It was a good thing that I turned on the hall light, for stretched out on the stairs, about half the way down was Bagheera. He obviously intended some payback, as he showed no intention of moving out of the way. It took a few good pokes with my toes, before he finally deigned to recognize my persistent request, and moved his shiny, black carcass. Nothing like a lazy feline, to cause a catastrophe.
By now, the need to get to the bathroom was reaching desperate levels. I barely had my butt seated, when I caught movement from the corner of my eye. To my horror, there was a big, creepy spider, hurrying straight towards me. I’m not even kidding. It was aiming for me, and it wasn’t wasting any time. Now, some may shake their heads, and roll their eyes at my reaction, but this was no catch and release moment. That spider had me like a sitting duck. There was nowhere, I could go. Quick as a wink, I picked up a big jug of Epsom salts, and dropped it directly on top of the scary arachnid. Problem solved, well sort of. There was no way I could, or would pick up that jug, to check on the possible carnage. I mean, what of it was still alive? What if the jug wasn’t flat on the bottom, and the spider had somehow survived? I simply couldn’t risk it. Revenge could certainly be possible. After all, it had been on an extremely focused mission, and I had interrupted it.
I did what any self respecting, spider fearing woman would do. I left everything as it was, for hubby to see to later. I even kindly left the light on, so he wouldn’t trip over the jug in the dark, and folded pile of tissues on the edge of the vanity for clean up. It seemed like the courteous thing to do.

  1. omg – I’m howling

    I’ve had spiders skitter (they’re LOUD) over my homework as I was stretched out across the floor in my apartment. My cats have been useless spider catchers. The damn things are even too big for them (the one in question was at least two twoonies big).

    Wonder if the cat enjoyed his coffee :-).

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About Trudy Andrew

Trudy Andrew lives on a small farm just east of Winnipeg, Manitoba, where she enjoys her Morgan horses. A dreamer since she was a child, its no surprise to those who know her well that her imagination would find an outlet in writing, as it has in the past through artwork.
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 Oakbank, MB