In response to the suggestion that we get chickens, my mother used the argument that chickens made her uncomfortable because they reminded her too much of her contemporaries.
In deference to that idea, I have referred to Buck's girls as the Bridge Club, though no husband of any of my mother's friends would have rippled through the room posturing and commenting during a game. Not if they wanted their wives to give them any positive attention over the next 24 hours.
These girls are every bit as intent on their bidding and the remaining number of trump cards, though. It's a carefully organized society.
Every now and then when a player is dummy, she can leave the table for the duration of that hand. Nobody asks any questions, but in the case of chickens, if Buck notices that one of his ladies is missing, he has many questions. Also, accusations, usually directed towards me. I happened to be in the way today while Buck was rounding up a disobedient hen, probably Pearl, the most notorious non-conformist. She pretends to be deaf when he calls. First thing in the morning when Buck is coercing a little sugar out of the hens, Pearl is the first to go under, the least aware of how fast to sidestep his brutishness, so maybe she doesn't give a rat's hinder what he's saying to her from her safe perch on my window.
Buck doesn't give up. He saw me in his path, let out a growl, danced sideways, and puffed himself up.
"Clear off , YOU!"
I stepped behind a conveniently located shrub, let him hustle past, keeping up his talk at the errant hen.
"Broowwahh, tak bik brrrrut brrrut. bickity bickity groooooo." ["How many times do I have to say it. It's dangerous to get separated from the flock!"]
"Quwa?" she says.
"Buck, Buck." she says. [Which I think translates, as ' Oooh, you gweat big mans" but I could be wrong.]
What is really going on is that Pearl is trying to find her way into the house where the motherlode of cat food is, while the other girls cluster around behind Buck who is looking through the back door at the cat food, vocalizing like an Irish Tenor.
She's no dummy.
In deference to that idea, I have referred to Buck's girls as the Bridge Club, though no husband of any of my mother's friends would have rippled through the room posturing and commenting during a game. Not if they wanted their wives to give them any positive attention over the next 24 hours.
These girls are every bit as intent on their bidding and the remaining number of trump cards, though. It's a carefully organized society.
Buck doesn't give up. He saw me in his path, let out a growl, danced sideways, and puffed himself up.
"Clear off , YOU!"
I stepped behind a conveniently located shrub, let him hustle past, keeping up his talk at the errant hen.
"Broowwahh, tak bik brrrrut brrrut. bickity bickity groooooo." ["How many times do I have to say it. It's dangerous to get separated from the flock!"]
"Quwa?" she says.
"Buck, Buck." she says. [Which I think translates, as ' Oooh, you gweat big mans" but I could be wrong.]
What is really going on is that Pearl is trying to find her way into the house where the motherlode of cat food is, while the other girls cluster around behind Buck who is looking through the back door at the cat food, vocalizing like an Irish Tenor.
She's no dummy.
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Glad to hear from you, but criticisms will be ignored. It's the beauty of the web. I will answer all friendly remarks. Buck handles the rest.