Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not sick very often. Oh, sure...she complains about each little finger scratch as if she's on her last legs. But she really doesn't succumb to much of the crud that gets passed around from sneezers in line behind her at the gas station chicken store, or waits patiently on the handle of a Devil's Playground cart/walker to hitch a ride on her hands and into her mucous membranes.
I always figured I'd been exposed to one of every kind of virus and bacteria, what with sitting in a teeming petri dish that is a public school classroom from October through March. Yes, that's where I assumed my latent immunity sprung from. Until last night.
The wind was whipping and rain was falling sideways as I completed my evening walk under the canopy of the Mansion roof. At 45 degrees, it was a bit chilly for Farmer H to come join me in his tighty-whities and camouflage Crocs. I finished walking and snacked the dogs. I did not linger. They were both wet, and wanting to press up against my dry sweatpants. I got up off the porch pew to return to the warmth of the Mansion, and saw a dead mouse laying in front of the rocking chair.
I didn't notice it during the 40 or more laps around the porch, because I was intent on staying ON the porch. Not toppling into the rose bush or onto the brick sidewalk or lava rocks out front. Only two sides of that porch have rails, you know. And with Jack nipping at my heels like Jack Frost at my nose, it takes concentration. Let the record show that earlier in the week, he completed EVERY lap with me!
Once inside, I informed the Dead Mouse Disposer of his mission. "The dogs have a dead mouse on the front porch."
"What? I just threw that thing into the woods! It's a little mole. They had it over by the goat pen."
"Well, they ARE always digging up the yard. I guess they just want to show you that they're really doing you a favor."
Farmer H didn't seem like he appreciated that favor. He grunted in disgust and stomped out onto the porch and GRABBED THAT DEAD MOUSE WITH HIS BARE HAND and flung it out into the yard.
"There. Now it's gone."
"So, it was a mole, not a mouse?"
"No. It was a mouse. I guess they got one of each."
Farmer H settled back into his La-Z-Boy to watch reruns of M*A*S*H while I fixed his supper. I put it in the oven and went back to the living room. Just in time to see him switching channels. Holding the remote. With the hand he'd just used to pick up a dead mouse.
"EWW! You didn't even wash your hands! And you're touching the remote! After the dead mouse!"
"I only used two fingers to pick up that dead mouse. It's fine."
"The same two fingers you're using to touch the channels on the remote!"
"HM. It's fine."
That's easy for HIM to say. He already touched a dead mouse. AND a dead mole. With the intention to do so.
Remember, people. When you touch the remote...you're touching whatever everybody else who touches the remote has touched!