Prepper

Chapter Thirteen

Heath and I are up early, mostly due to his unerring internal clock that jettisons him from bed at 5:55am every damn day. We are fetching eggs from the chicken coop, which now houses three hens, one rooster (not long for this world), and a small bevy of wee yellow chicks. Heath snatches one up and presses it to his cheek, it peeps the whole time. I can't help but smile. He loves the chickens.

One of the hens is a bit broody, and despite my warnings, Heath has named her Mabel. I didn't state outright that we might be eating these chickens, but I told him they are not pets and they should not be named. The result - he named all of them.

Mabel has many friends. There is Ester, who is good for an egg every day, she's very friendly and likely my favourite. I'll eat her last. Next is Fiona, who is a bit haughty, but still good for eggs when she's in the mood. All the chicks have names too, but I get the impression Heath makes them up on the spot, as they seem to change from time to time. Today they are all named after Transformers. Heath places tiny, yellow Optimus Prime back on the floor of the coop, it runs back to join Bumblebee, Roadblock, Ironhide, and Starscream. I don't fully trust that last one, it could be trouble.

Then there is Dan, that goddamn rooster. I'm going to kill that son of a bitch as soon as I work up the courage. That ballsy bastard not only crows far too early in the morning, but he took a run at me the other day, I think he's part Cassowary. He's definitely getting too big for his britches.

One of these days Dan, one of these days...

I don't want to mention Alfred, because he's not a chicken, but rather a cat and I don't much care for him. He showed up one day and Heath fed him Cheetos and now apparently, he's ours, or we're his, because I think that is how cats work.

He gave Merida one good swipe, just to set the tone and now they appear to tolerate each other. Mostly she gives him a wide berth, but on occasion I have seen both curled up in the Sun within inches of each other. It's like their stereotypical dog-cat behaviour is just for show.

Alfred does not seem interested in the chickens which is one thing that has kept him bullet-free these past few weeks. The other thing that saves his ass, is the fact that he does a good job of keeping the other Toms at bay. Despite our mutual enmity, I consider him a necessary evil and permit his presence. I sure he'd say the same of me.

Kate doesn't mind the cat at all, she rubs him behind the ears and calls him Freddie. My wife and son are both traitors, such is my curse. She gives him treats when I'm not looking, and praises his handsome countenance. He returns the favour by leaving dead things on the doorstep. This activity is good for at least one scream a day. It's his most redeeming quality and I might keep him around just for that.

All the hens have eggs for us this morning, Heath collects them all in his little basket before putting out some feed and refilling their water. We usually have a surplus of eggs, so after breakfast Heath will knock on a few doors in the neighbourhood and sell or trade the eggs. Being five, his priorities are different, he trades for Lego, crayons and candy on the sly. One day he scored a turnip and a loaf of homemade bread, he clearly thought the turnip was something else until we made him eat some for dinner. After that it was back to trading for trinkets. Sometimes you win, sometimes you eat a turnip.

I'm getting a ride with Kate this morning, I have business in Rose River. I need to clear up this mortgage nonsense with United Credit. We rush out the door breakfast still in hand - I'm carrying a pair of travel mugs with coffee to-go and have cranberry-bran muffins stuffed in each coat pocket. We blow out the door in a whirlwind, running through mental checklists as we go. Surely we have forgotten something.

"Does Heath have his books?" I ask.

"Yes." Kate answers and returns in kind. "Is the dog in her crate?"