It was a long time ago that I stopped seeing birthdays as exciting milestones and started to see them rather as milestones along the way to whatever lies beyond this mortal coil. Once you pass the "good years" like eighteen (When you are officially and adult), twenty-one (Where you can begin to indulge "adult" habits), and twenty-five (Where you can rent cars, at least in Hawaii), the rest don't come with new "powers". Where once there was excitement, now there is the promise of new aches and pains, diminished mental capacity, and most of all, a need to invest more and more in hair dye.
I have, on more than one occasion, wondered whether the difference between mortality and immortality is our apparent need to keep track of time. Maybe God just stopped counting!
It was in this somber mood that I turned thirty-nine this week. My current employer actually gives you your birthday off as a paid vacation day. I think that this is a really cool thing. Apparently, however, this is not an automatic vacation day, so I found myself on the schedule and working. I am in no way bitter about this. Anyone who has read more than three of my posts will know that there is nowhere that I would rather be and few intelligent creatures that I would rather spend it with (By this I mean the animals and not the humans at the Farm - Just kidding!).
Since Lori seems to like keeping track of the withering count of years ahead of me, I had hoped to be able to get off work on-time - in this case 6PM - so that I could get home to whatever special birthday treats awaited me. Having recently celebrated our dog Heidi's fourteenth birthday, I wished to make out at least as well. This was not to be.
Recently we made some changes at the Farm regarding assignments and roles and responsibilities. I was on the "PM Feeds" shift, and this shift now involved closing in the animals in the small barns. I think that this is a good change since it splits the workload between two people and makes it more likely that they can both get off somewhere in the vicinity of the desired hour, or at least on the same day. Since there are two people working on this, it seemed to me like it should be a team effort where the day ends for both upon closure of the last barn door. I had been somewhat vocal regarding my position on this at our last Staff meeting and it was in that spirit that I found myself asking whether Mike C needed any help after I finished up my tasks at five forty-five. He replied that I could start wrangling the ducks and geese if I wanted and so I set about this.
While this is not one of my formal responsibilities, I had been given the chance to help with this on a few previous occasions and knew that it could be tricky. While all the other animals can eventually be rounded up on land, the ducks and geese have two nasty habits. First, the geese like to bite and I am not talking about nipping. I am talking about skin abrasions encased in a softball sized, multi-colored full-on bruise. Second, they are quick to take to the pond if they are not ready for bed. Imagine a three year old human with the ability to encase himself in a ring of fire whenever he doesn't want to brush his teeth, take a nap, or whatever else three year olds do; At thirty-nine that memory has apparently been deemed "irrelevant".
I know what you are thinking: "What's so bad about a little water?" That is a good question and it can be answered very simply. The pond in question is shared by the pigs. If you have ever heard the saying, "Do bears $@&# in the woods?" you can be assured that the same is true for pigs and their pond. While the pigs are delightful animals, they are not dainty and neither is their ordure. Although this does not bother the pigs, the ducks, or the geese, they all seem to know that this water quality is not popular with the humans.
After tucking in all but two of the ducks and geese, I walked down to the pond to look for the stragglers. As I approached Della and Shelly who were on the bank of the pond and facing in the opposite direction of where I needed them to go, I wasted my birthday wish in hoping that they would see me coming and relent. Instead they went for a swim, right to the middle, and stayed there. With the sun setting over Black Butte Lake, the look on the ducks faces said, "Happy Birthday...Not!"
Vainly pacing around the perimeter of the pond, I wished that I had paid more attention t that whole "walking on water" thing in Sunday School. I concluded that I would probably have "insufficient funds" in my "Faith Bank" for such a feat. Besides, that pond was probably only ten percent water, at best. I begged and pleaded with them at first. As Mike C arrived after closing the other barns, we resorted to splashing and concocting sounds that we hoped may be inspirational to the ducks. And still, they swam in small circles in the middle of the pond.
When the sun completely disappeared, we tried to laugh at our impotence standing on opposing banks being defied by these little critters. I take great pride in the fact that I have never been angry at an animal, but that is not to say that there aren't situations that can be profoundly frustrating.
By the time that Kerrie arrived to help out, our flashlights were barely able to even keep track of the ducks anymore. The writing was on the wall; At least one of us was going to have to get wet. I took my first steps off the bank and into the water. In a fair world, this feat would have been enough to convince the ducks that we meant business, but anyone who has paid any attention to the news knows that this is not a fair world. The ducks remained defiant so I proceeded, as did Mike C and Kerrie.
As the water began to ooze over the tops of my boots, I realized that I was "all-in". I was already contaminated so I might as well push aside any pretense of staying dry. I asked Mike C how deep the pond was and he said that another caregiver had told him that it was about knee deep. I really wish that this nine foot four inch caregiver had been on shift this night instead of me because the water was about up to mid thigh by now and was approaching parts of my body that I really didn't want contaminated.
I was mentally retching with each disgusting schlurp of the mud (Please God, let it be mud) on my boots as I moved forward. Watching us closing in on them, Della and Shelly seemed to ponder what other acts of madness we may be capable of and though better of their protest. They made their way onto the bank and then waddled up the path to the hutches. I had been in this situation before and knew quite well that Della was capable of turning around and flying right back to the pond, but I think that the looks in our collective eyes advised her that this may not be prudent.
With the sound of the latch closing, my attention turned to the soaking pants that were pressing against my skin with a foul odor that did not bode well. I couldn't bear to wear them a second more so I stripped them off in the office. It wasn't just the fact that they would stain my car seats with more souvenirs, but the thought of what they were dripping with was making my mind run wild. For the first time in my life, I was at work in my underwear (Actually, I have often dreamed of inexplicably being at work in my underwear or naked, so maybe it was prophetic!). In order to avoid offending anyone, I wrapped a shirt partially around my waist, bid farewell to Mike C and Kerrie, and hit the road.
My mind quickly returned to lunch time. I had gone into town at lunch and had noticed that I needed gas. I had made the decision to wait and get gas on my way home. Now the fill light was no longer blinking but was on solid. I didn't know if I would make it to the gas station or if I would end up having to walk. The only thing I knew for sure was that those pants were not going back on. Good fortune paid a visit for the first time that night and I made it to the gas station. Although the station was busy and had an ample supply of folks hanging out in the parking lot, my attire or lack thereof, didn't draw any attention. Based on that and the lack of police sirens, I went for a complete fill up.
And so was formed my most memorable experience of my thirty-ninth birthday. I can't wait for the big four-oh!
