Since I can no longer pretend that the kittens are still kittens,
but they are not grown up, what do I call them? Catlets? Anyhow, they
are pretty much done with their pouncing lessons and are moving on to
practical applications. I was sitting out in front of the barn the other
day, taking one of my multitudinous smoke breaks, when some small
sparrows and wrens arrived.
    You see, Joey is a very messy eater and usually gets about half his
breakfast grain on the floor of his stall. He then has to pick it out of
the shavings, and he is not 100% efficient. As soon as I turn Joey out,
Duke is on the job picking out the bits Joey missed, and Sheba, the next
canine in the pecking order, cleans up after him. But the dogs aren't
perfect either, and when I sweep the barn, some bits and pieces go out
the front door with whatever else I sweep up. This gets us back to the
wrens, who show up every day at 10:00 promptly to pick over the
sweepings. And that gets us back to cats and practical pounce
applications.
    Having committed genocide on the local rodent population, the catlets
are going for more elusive game. Echo came charging around the corner of
the barn at her top speed, which still not much more than a forced
kitten romp. The birds saw her coming, and I overheard their alarmed
conversation.
    "Hey, Bob, isn't that a cat coming?"
    "Well, if it is, it isn't much of a cat, is it?"
    "A cat's a cat Bob. I think we should leave."
    "Time enough for that when she gets here. Hey look, I just found an
oat! Molasses dipped, too!"
    "What *would* we do without stables, hm?"
    "Probably have to go on the dole. So how's the wife and kids?"
    "Oh fine. Can you believe the price of nesting material these days
though?"
    "Yeah, I know, it's criminal, ain't it? Say, you know what, that cat
is still running this way."
    "Yeah well, time to go look in on the nest anyways. Same time
tomorrow?"
    "Sure, bye, Say hi to Velma for me."
    At this point the birds took to their wings and were gone. Shortly
thereafter, Echo skidded onto the scene, clawing at air. She pounced
left, she pounced right. Nothing. She pounced again just in case. Still
nothing. How embarrassing! Time for a wash!
     Next thing, the rest of the cat family trooped out of the barn and
sat down in a row staring at Echo. It looked like they were doing a
post-mortem on the attack, and the general assessment was not favorable.
Mom offered some advice on stalking technique and the court was
adjourned.
     Speaking of Mom, we have solved the naming dilemma. After much
agonizing, we have settled on calling her Snaffle. It's a bit of a joke
you see.
     Ok, for those who don't know horses, a snaffle is a type of bit and
you find one or two in every barn. Just like the cat. (For those who
REALLY don't know horses, a bit is the metal thing that goes in the
horse's mouth and attaches to the reins. This is not a recommended
placement for cats, but I digress.)
     At the risk of incurring the moderator's wrath, I thought I'd
mention that there are people who keep sheep around here. For some
bizarre reason I always stop and look at them for a while on the way
home. One morning there was a large black cat in the sheep field, pawing
away at a small log in a most un-catlike manner. It took me a couple of
minutes to realize that it was not a cat. Lambing season is here!
     I had no idea lambs were that small. The little black one soon lost
interest in it's log and galumphed over to Mother for breakfast. The
lamb had an interesting rear infiltration approach, but it worked and it
was soon working that udder like she wanted to make off with the whole
apparatus. Mom contentedly chewed. I was in raptures of rustic bliss.
The eternal cycle was turning again, life was springing forth anew, and
all was perfect with the world.
     Then Mom took a dump on the lamb's head. Now THAT's farm life!
 
--- Maximus 3.01
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