A Bad Scare. And, Not Exactly Walton's Mountain

I'm exhausted.

Ran 4.25 miles this morning, swam 0.5 miles. Came home and got about two hours into work when John, who'd stayed home sick, came up to the loft and curled up next to the window.

"I feel bad," he said.

"What's wrong, buddy?"

"My chest hurts."

Understand, John is not a whiner. Far from it. And having had a little chest episode in New York a few years ago (the doctor called me a "meshuganah goy" and offered to call an ambulance), it caught my attention.

An hour later, he was hooked up to an EKG. Talk about experiences you'd rather have your son avoid.

The good news is, it was probably just a monster case of indigestion. The EKG didn't turn up anything, we were sent home with Prilosec and Maalox, and he wanted to go for a hike in the afternoon.

Still ...

We came home and found a chicken being pecked by the others, so we put it back in the brooder. It was bleeding pretty badly, but seemed much better (if somewhat lonely) tonight. Hopefully, it'll be able to go back to the coop in another week or so.

I had to do some financial stuff in Brattleboro later in the afternoon and ran by the grocery store. Take it from me: Do not rely upon Price Chopper to help you. With anything. Their corporate credo, apparently, is, "Well, I don't know about that!" and "We can't do that." I very rarely do this, but I gave the store manager my discount card and told him to send it back when he got a clue. I've only done that once before (Border's) when I was shopping and a manager told me I'd have to leave my books -- I had three -- at the counter if I wanted to keep shopping. So I said no, I didn't want to keep shopping, and certainly not at a Border's.

But I digress and will stop here. Except to say that the Rite-Aid people on Putney Road rock. They are friendly, understanding, and could stop nuclear proliferation in Iran if given half a chance.

It's a bit of a free association, but my Price Chopper experience made me agree with Cindy Sheehan on one thing: We are a nation of idiots who care more about who wins on "American Idol" than how many kids died in Iraq. And mind you, I'm not sure I agree with Cindy Sheehan on much at all.

So.

I headed back from Brattleboro and picked up John's prescription at the Rite-Aid. Lisa called, and the woman who was giving away the ducks really needed us to pick them up quickly. So we got in the car and headed to Putney with a crate in the back of the car.

It was a good thing we had a big crate because there were more than the three or four ducks she'd talked about. There were eight Muscovy ducks -- three males and five females. Lisa wrestled them to the ground (another Very Good Thing) and we admired the woman's turkeys. The tom is a Bourbon, and the hen is a Bourbon-Red cross. She said the hen was laying and brooding. We ooed and aahed, so she gave them to us, too.

The crate will fit eight Muscovy ducks and one turkey hen just fine, but the tom was another story. Understand, this guy is huge -- about 40 pounds. Looks like a damn ostrich. Seems calm, but who knew at the time? And there was no way he was fitting in the crate. So he rode about 30 miles in Lisa's lap. She did ask me how many wives would let a 40-pound turkey ride in their lap for 45 minutes. I didn't have a good estimate.

We put the ducks and turkeys in the outer cage. The dogs -- Cleo in particular -- just about went nuts. I'm sure they've never seen birds that large. Put some roosts on sawhorses to hold them. Put out more grain (we'll have to get whole corn tomorrow)and introduced them to the collies. I think the collies may secretly be scared of them. Very secretly, though.

So the short story is, I worked out, worked at the day job, had the living crap scared out of me by my oldest son, developed a deep loathing for Price Chopper and appreciation of Rite-Aid, acquired eight ducks and two turkeys to accompany my 40 chickens.

It's not exactly Walton's Mountain.