Ron and I took a quick trip to town for out third fleecing of the week by Hilo grocers. We were out of TP and diesel for the convertible (aka the tractor) and needed tofu for the stir fry he wants to make tonight, so we loaded the trash and the reusable shopping bags into the car and headed for town. Stopping at the Glenwood transfer station to unload the trunk of rubbish (no trash service here, folks) we proceeded on to an otherwise uneventful if hot, muggy and wallet-emptying sojourn. Our highlight came in the form of a woman, older than Delaware, walking at the speed of frozen syrup, out of the store and along the sidewalk as we walked in. She was wearing an orange and yellow flowered smock, black and white checkered capris and a floppy hat that seemed to weigh her head down on one side, cocking it to the left. She passed us and was just far enough to be out of earshot when Ron said, "Now that's an outfit." He leaned toward me as he said it, talking out of the side of his mouth like a bad ventriloquist, while at the exact same time I mumbled, "Nice ensemble, auntie." Then, of course, we proceeded to giggle all the way into that arctic blast you get when you enter a grocery store in Hilo in August.
The KTA was packed, as ever, and we dawdled, as always, this time over the plethora of noodles in the vast asian food aisle - soba, udon, somen, chow funn - reading countries of origin on cans of clams (I found one from the USA). We checked out the chirashi bowls in the sushi cooler but deciding to pass and get just a tiny tub of tako poke to nibble on instead. I do miss those days when we didn't have to pick and choose based on price. Twenty dollar square of toro tuna? No problem. Two thick, local, grass-fed rib eye steaks? Sounds perfect. Chunk of smoked salmon, wild caught from Alaska? Great. Sixpack of Mehana? Who cares if it's 12 bucks? Throw it all in the basket. Sadly, those days are gone. I did opt to pay 35 cents more for the Hilo-made tofu. Hey, a girl's gotta have some standards.
When we returned home, the place was uncomfortably quiet.
"Where's Charlie?" Ron asked.
"Hmmm," I said. "He's usually right here." Ron walked around the outside of the house. I did the same, expanding my search to a broader patch of green. I found a few scattered feathers and a dead rat covered with flies, but no chicken. Ron went to the lanai and shook the food bin we keep there.
"The cats finally got him," said Ron.
"I don't think so," I said. "I mean, they chase him, but they never get him."
"Oh I don't know. They get close. Alvin chased him all the way down the driveway yesterday and he didn't stop until I caught up to him and chased him off." Alvin is our cat. Now, I know there's no way Ron, running head to head with Alvin or any other cat chasing a chicken, could ever catch up, but I let it slide. Plus, I like the image, arms flailing, feathers flying.
"Still," I said, "I just don't think, I mean, roosters are pretty good at defending themselves. And he's pretty big."
"Well that's what I was worried about," he said, "that Alvin would be the one to get hurt."
"So?"
"So, I think the cats got him."
"I don't know," I said. I was in denial.
"I think he can protect himself from one cat," Ron said, "but two? He doesn't stand a chance against two. Or three." I couldn't argue with that.
So the afternoon remained quiet, no breeze, no birds in the trees, no rooster. I had this odd, melancholy feeling. I missed that feathered, pea-brained idiot. There was real sadness there as I pondered the prospect of his violent demise. Ron went into the bedroom to take a nap and I did the same, on the couch where the fans blow almost hard enough to cool a woman of a particular age here in the tropics. I dozed. When I awoke, I felt no better. I listened for a cockadoodle doo, a cluck cluck, something. One of the cats sat in the window sill, batting a moth as it fluttered across the window, as if nothing otherwise had happened all day. I rose to spot his two feline siblings torturing a tiny lizard on the living room rug. They were smiling.
"Jesus," I said, "you guys are relentless." I went to check on Doc, the dog who, given a choice, would love nothing better than to burrow into a snowbank for his siesta. I figured he had settled onto a cool spot on the driveway cement despite having two doggy beds and a rug out there. I opened the door and there was Charlie, dear ol' Chuck, hangin' wit' his homeboy the Doctor Dog. I can honestly say I've never felt so glad to see a stupid, pinheaded chicken. I mean, have you ever noticed how much smaller their heads are than their bodies?
I went back inside, then out on the lanai. I shook the canister, filled with assorted bread crumbs and cat food and seeds and stale crackers. Charlie came running - sprinting - around the house and across the grass. Yay! That is some entertainment, watching a rooster run. I rewarded his efforts with a big handful. Then I went to wake Ron to tell him the good news.
A hui hou. Aloha!
Comments