Late this evening I reached into the chicken coop to make sure all had gotten in for the night before I shut the door. I counted by running my fingers over silkily-feathered necks and burying them in even fluffier tails. I’ve never come out low on my count, despite the profusion of coyotes in the area, and I hope I always make it to six. The hens made muffled mumbles as I ran my hands over them, but so late in the day they’re half-asleep. Such a peaceful, heart-rate-slowing activity.
Another favorite is holding Arwyn as I lay on the couch. She stretches out from my knees to my throat, dredging up a deep, continuous purr and blink-blinking her eyes at me on occasion. Yeah, that one’s good for the soul. When I described this scene to a friend of mine, she looked startled and said I had just described what it felt like to hold her infant son as he fell asleep. Just like, except that my cat will end our sessions by planting her hind feet in my gut and launching herself over the back of the couch. No infants I’ve cared for ever offered such a finale.
Erin
Alan Schmierer