At Least They're Committed

Why, yes, I do know that the facial construct of me in the previous post (Hold On) is precisely the same as the image in the post before (I’ll Do the Talking). Trust me, you don’t want to see what I really looked like in the original pic, frantic on that scawy, scawy ride to make sure my grandson was safe.

Look at me! Yay! I’m writing! This is Step 1 toward getting my creative $h!t together. I also want to paint something. I just don’t know what I want to paint.

Actually, ‘want’ is a gross exaggeration. I want to want to write and paint. Yet, my enthusiasm toward such endeavors is nonexistent. It seems to have faded as my life got ‘easier.’

Easier? Or iiiiiis it?

Friday before last, when we arrived at the mountain home, the sliding glass door was wide open. Thankfully nothing had been taken/destroyed, but it was apparent that someone had been inside, sat on the couch, moved the antler to the fireplace, put their feet up on the stone coffee table and most likely watched TV. Since we had a delivery on what we believe to be the day the incident occurred (trail camera showed a truck pull in at 1 a.m.), we suspect the suspect (that was intentional) scurried away quickly, leaving the door open in their wake.

One fatality: A stellar jay that for months had been hanging out and gorging itself on sunflower seeds on our deck, had flown inside the open door and broken its neck bashing against the upstairs window in attempt to get out. I was heartsick. I’m now watching his family — mamma and three littles — swoop in to take his place, and that helps a bit. It used to be only papa, so I tell myself maybe he was abusive and manipulative and now they are enjoying their freedom. Right.

Locks changed; cameras to be installed next week.

The next morning, as we prepared to go hiking the next town over, the call came from D3. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news . . . ” (Why do people start with that?)

While we were in the mountains, the MIL let my chickens out into the backyard and left for Walmart (shopping there a sin in-and-of itself) without having put them back into the safety of their pen.

Animal control said the beheadings were “inconsistent with an animal attack.” Four of my seven hens were brutally slaughtered, three of whom had their heads completely sliced off and taken for heaven’s sake! The fourth’s head was barely attached. There was no blood on the scene. How? Who does that???? My girls. My sweet girls. Murdered. The three survivors are traumatized and unlikely to lay eggs again.

Two of the dead were my 5-year-old grandson’s favorites. He spent hours with them — they let him carry them around the yard and snuggle. He’d bring them to us and the other grandkids so we all could pet them, too.

I’m crying again. Imagine that.

Evidently, the same thing happened to another neighbor, so it seems we have a budding serial murderer lurking in the hood.

The deputies interviewed all our neighbors in response to the chicken beheadings and noted that none of our yards were fully covered with security cameras. They are now.

My doc (or PA, I can’t remember) had told me once that since my blood pressure fluctuates to go ahead and up my dose temporarily if it registers high; like, if I’m under stress or dealing with murdered pets. With all that has been occurring, I had taken heed.

I suppose I overdid the meds because back in the mountains the next Saturday night, after watching Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band — one of my favorite guilty pleasures — I hopped up and bent over to grab my phone charger, and that’s all I remember until I came-to and realized I was looking into D’s terrified eyes as he was holding me.

No pain, no recollection, just lots and lots of blood from inside and atop my nose. Evidently, I had fainted (happened a lot when I was young) and tipped over flat on my face before he could grab me. Huh.

I’m looking pretty wicked cool about now with the huge, red, bruised bags under my eyes and the monster scab on my nose! I do, however, wish the puffiness would go away and the red turn to super sexy black eyes.

I’m sure CDOT’s Tricia was real impressed with my sultry look when the spanking-new tire on the back passenger side of our Subaru SUV bubbled and flattened at the base of Berthoud Pass, right outside Winter Park. God bless her, she barely batted an eye at my battered face! She was an angel who positioned her truck to ensure our safety and helped D change the tire. She loved Max up a bit, too!

“Look for the helpers,” isn’t that what Mr. Rogers used to say? The yin and the yang and all that. Thank you CDOT and deputies.

And God help us. In the end — and in reference to the previous post — I seem to be the one who needs to hold on.