It was back to work today, the doctor's note only having released me "until 3/29." I attempted but couldn't quite achieve a belief that "until 3/29" could mean "through 3/29." I considered, too, amending the date on the note to "3/30," but I think that would be illegal.
Which wouldn't have hindered me if I thought I could have gotten away with it.
Tomorrow is Listen To The Lungs Day, after which, if I am judged to be "still wheezy," I may be prescribed Prednisone. I devoutly hope not to have to use it since I know a woman, poor soul, who has some condition that requires regular steroid use. Her face looks like a blown-up balloon, one eye puffed shut. I can't imagine how I would apply makeup to make that a good look for me, so I plan on using my handy dandy albuterol inhaler immediately before the Lung Listening.
Sitting upright for seven and a half hours almost did me in, I must say, after several days of napping at will. And now I'm trying to hold off bedtime sleepiness so as to enjoy my evening. Soothing windy and rainy weather sounds are conspiring against me, and all I have to ponder to keep bedtime at bay is yet another turkey story.
Late yesterday afternoon the turkey flock was on parade. I looked, at just the right moment, down the field and saw a few hens grazing their way through the hedgerow, followed by two toms in full array, hesitation stepping, side by side. So stately was their procession that I had the impression that somebody in the group should have been carrying a banner.
I've come to believe that those two are younger toms showing off for each other. The large old four star general was way out in front of the flock. He appears neither impressed nor intimidated and doesn't bother to engage in all that wasteful posturing. When push shall come to shove in the mating game, he most assuredly knows all the tricks, and showing off your big puffy feathers isn't what gets the job done.
Even after daily sightings of the group, they transfix me. I stood and gazed out the window, exclaiming softly. Max poodle, much too small to be able to see out the window, but certainly attuned to any interest that pulls attention even for a moment from his own small apricot self, and never far from High Alert, knew there was Something Out There To Which Attention Must Be Paid. I was able to reach and open the door before he crashed through it to stand fully and stiffly extended, facing northeast and barking, barking . . . in a slightly bewildered tone, the flock of fowl being around the house to the southwest and therefore completely invisible to him.
The hens listened for a few seconds and decided that the source of that annoying sound would eventually discover their location. (They haven't had a lot of exposure to Max's guarding technique.) The general led the hens off to the south, across the width of the field, the two young soldiers forming the rear guard. The flock disappeared through the brush that surrounds the stone wall bordering the field.
The two young stalwarts stopped, still in perfect side-by-side formation, and remained motionless in the opening for the length of time that it took for the family to find their way to safer ground. Then they too melted away.
What a show.
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