Barkin' 9 to 6
Ain't no way to go 'bout livin'
Barely gettin' by
I'm all shakin', not forgivin'
He just locks you up
Walks away and then forgets it
It's enough to drive you
Crazy if you let it
9 to 6
For service and devotion
You would think that he
Could deduce my raw emotion
Want to move ahead
Farmer H don't seem to let me
I swear sometimes
That man is out to get me
This morning I had to wake The Pony to drag the dumpster to the end of the driveway before the trash truck arrived. He ran out in his short pajamas and pulled that big green dumpster like a champion draft steed. My sweet, sweet Juno romped alongside him, all frisky and happy to be around her pack. Then she scampered up the steps and lay under the living room window so she could hear my voice while I talked to my mom on the phone. I know she listens to me, because she turns and peers into the window, and wags her feathery black tail.
Little did I know the horror that befell my sweet, sweet Juno overnight.
We had a big, big storm roll through Hillmomba around 2:00 a.m. I had fallen asleep in my basement recliner, trying to watch the Cardinals lose again in the 9th inning. Imagine my surprise when I awoke and fast-forwarded my DVR to find that they had actually WON 2-0 in the bottom of the 9th. Also my surprise at the booming thunder and flashes of lightning as I ascended the stairs to the main floor of the Mansion. I had given up on those storms after a steaming day of sunshine here in Hillmomba. I was even surprised that the game had been under a rain delay early on. Oh, what a difference a few tens of miles make.
Farmer H and The Pony were oblivious to the maelstrom, having hit the sack around 10:00, The Pony with visions of science fiction plots dancing in his head, and Farmer H with visions of the auction from whence he had returned around 9:00. See what I did there? I gave Farmer H the benefit of the doubt, and did not expose his most likely empty noggin.
Farmer H got up at 6:00 and went for a haircut. He seems to think I actually believe that a barber is open at 6:00 a.m., and that he was there until 9:30 with that story about having six men waiting ahead of him. Sure. Every Hillmomban man goes for a haircut at 6:00 on a Tuesday morning in July.
When Farmer H returned to the old Mansionstead aroung 10:30, he mentioned offhandedly, "Your Juno was locked up in the garage all night." WHAT? He acted like it was her fault. Like she'd been hauled in on a warrant for egg-eating and couldn't post bail.
"What? My sweet, sweet Juno spent the whole night locked up in the garage? She can't get in there! She's way too big for the cat/possum door! You put her in there!"
"No. I didn't even know she was in there until I opened the door to feed the cats. She must have got in there last night."
"She NEVER goes in there any more. Since the cats' roaster pan is outside. She must have run in to greet you when you got back from the auction. So loving! Even though you despise her. She's so loyal to you, always barking and running after your Gator on you escapades. She came in to welcome you home, glad you were back, and you locked her up! How can you live with yourself?"
"I don't know when she got in there. I let her out."
Yeah. That's from the man who TWICE has locked my sweet, sweet Juno up in the BARn overnight, unaware (allegedly) that she was in there.
A living, breathing, loving, loyal, four-legged family member should not be locked up tighter than my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel's scissors, rulers, and giant yellow glue sticks. Not even during a severe thunderstorm.
I imagine squatter Ann thoroughly enjoyed sleeping snug as a bug in a rug in Juno's back-porch dog house. Funny how she did not alert us that her canine companion was missing.