TN Time

A "city girl" meets country living.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Please Let It Be a Frog

We have a frog in our office vent. Now, I like frogs, but not when they’re croaking at me from some unseen location. Then it’s more like a stalker, like a creeper. Here’s the thing ... we think it’s a frog. I first heard the loud, fire-alarmy sound while on the phone with my mother. She heard it too and asked, “What’s that?” I looked at the far wall, a mere eight feet away, and hoped Jerry’d rigged up some buzzer system to remind him to turn off the grow light. Please, God, let it be a frog and not some psycho cicada or rare hissing snake.

My imagination is my worst enemy in such situations. I don’t watch horror movies, but in my mind I’ve created such a terrifying creature that I will not describe it. I’ve never seen anything this scary in film, except maybe for that hand-eye anorexic beast from Pan’s Labyrinth. Heinous! Anywho, whenever I hear the call of the creature in our vent (please, God, let it be in the vent and not hiding behind my desk or the trash can waiting to latch a squishy tentacle onto my ankle or sink a fang into my flesh!), I run out of the office. My computer’s in there, so, of course, I return, feeling brave and rather like a contestant on Fear Factor. Okay, I keep looking around, making sure nothing’s slithering toward me. As I said, I like frogs, but I don’t want them touching me.

Jerry’s quite enjoying our mysterious office guest. But even he stands still and stares when its loud bellow commands our attention. LOUD! What could be so loud and still remain hidden? Frog sounds like a good guess. Guess we’ll just have to wait and see ... or not. The siren-cry could simply stop and remain a mystery forever. Please God...

My Garden

Genesis 3:8 includes these words: “the man and his wife heard the sound of the LORD God as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day.” That beautiful image suggests how God interacted with and appreciated His creation (the garden, the coolness, and the day). I imagine Him traipsing leisurely, as I do through our pasture in the crisp mornings, soaking in sunshine that’s only beginning to fall on the dew-drenched grass. Quiet, peaceful, glorious. This image of God runs through my head as I walk the paths Jerry cut in our yard with the riding mower. And then there’s how the critters add to the landscape ...

As I’ve shared before, Jerry and I name things: animals, tools, vehicles, etc. We’ve named more chickens than any other animal, and when the hatchery sent them to us as day-old chicks, they, like the critters on Noah’s Ark, came in pairs. The deep orangey red ones are Ginger and Skinny Ginger, the tans are Carmen and Carmello, the Australian black ones are Sheila and Claire (any Lost fans out there?), and the rock-star looking black & white bloaks are Nigel and Nancy. We’ve named one of the 16 turkeys and one of our six ducks. My Pride & Prejudice addiction convinced Jer to name the head turk Mr. Collins and the male duck Mr. Darcy. We’re considering Lady Catherine for one of the female turkeys, but it’s hard to tell them apart.

Since the grisly demise of Smokey (a.k.a. Jean Gray), our pretty gray chicken, not long ago, we’ve kept a keener eye--and louder voice--on our dogs, the likely culprits (we thought Harley did it, but now we’re not sure; could’ve been Bear or even the neighbor’s dog, although unlikely). Death is a part of life and loss as inevitable with animals as with human. But it brought a measure of unrest to my spirit. What could we do other than pray and try to train the dogs NOT to eat our birds?

I can only imagine the Garden of Eden, how God created all the creatures to dwell harmoniously. By the grace of God, it feels like that here again. The other day, we left Harley outside with the chickens and ducks for five hours while we caught a movie, and accounted for them all upon our return. (Bear still falls for our “here’s a snack” trick that gets him in the house.) The last few evenings Jer decided not to shut up the turkeys in their cage, and they settled down for the night by the rocks just beyond our front porch. Both our dogs also slept out there, elsewhere in the lawn yet very nearby. Thank God, we still have 16 turkeys.

The turkeys used to bully the other birds when we first let them roam, but even they’ve settled down, striding around unpuffed, keeping their spiked heels grounded. They peck at the grass, happily hiccupping all around the garden, trying to slip into the open duck pen to eat their food. Nigel challenged the turkeys once, but quickly retreated and has since kept his peace. The dogs lay calmly in the grass all day--and night--with birds all around them. No one’s fighting. No one’s biting off chicken heads. God has restored harmony ... in my “garden” and in my heart.



Now, if only we could train the turks not to poop on the porch.