Yet Another Transgression

Farmer H might as well build himself a big fancy structure to rival the BARn, suitable for overnights, all comfy and stocked with his favorite furniture, entertainment, and snacks. It should be in the shape of a doghouse.

No matter what kindness I show that man, he STILL manages to raise my ire. I swear, I could remove a thorn from his bloody paw, and he would show his thanks by making me his main course.

Saturday, I was headed to town to pick up a few Save A Lot items. Namely, fresh hamburger for a cookout to please the #1 son. Farmer H was on his riding lawnmower, going away from me, down the side of the garage, across the open area where the across-the-road neighbor's escaped horses had galloped before trampling our garden, along the old barbed-wire fence separating us from the next-door-neighbor whose daughter set the woods on fire burning trash (nearly incinerating the Mansion because they had not purchased a rural fire tag and did not want us calling the fire department who would bill them firefighting costs...to the extent of dragging out the garden hose to spray the back of our Mansion in between digging a fire break), along the back fence where we throw rotten potatoes from the back deck, and back to Poolio, where he turned and saw me gesticulating wildly for his attention. I was almost as exhausted as I am from writing that last sentence.

I asked Farmer H if he wanted anything from town. "I don't know. Like what?"

"Anything from Save A Lot. Or I could pick up something for lunch."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. What do you want? You what's there. Gas station chicken. Dairy Queen. Hardees."

"Just bring me something."

So demanding, that Farmer H. I did my shopping. Met my mom to give her last week's tabloids and receive some old newspaper clippings she found in her safe, from when I was a coach, and a 44 oz. Diet Coke cup. Poor dear. Like I don't have a collection of them to rival her cake plates. I decided to drive through Hardees and pick up some pulled pork sandwiches. They're two-for-$3.00, you know. Can't beat that with a stick.

Upon arriving home, the sickly Pony carried in my purchases. Farmer H was mowing the front acreage while his goats cropped superfluously. We put away the groceries. I set my pulled pork on a tray that I always use when I take my meal to my dark basement lair. Of course I had compared the porks. I like mine flat. That means the pulled pork is distributed evenly on the bun. Sometimes, they put a wad on one side, and it's all humped up, and you get plain bun before you get to the pork. Farmer H doesn't care if his food is uniform. So, there was my pulled pork on the tray on the stove, and Farmer H's in the Hardee's bag on the cutting block. I even folded down the paper sack, to keep it fairly warm. Off I went to the bedroom to change into my around-the-Mansion clothes.

Of course Farmer H chose that minute to enter through the front door. He has a nose for food. He's like a cat that comes running at the sound of the can-opener. Or a hound bounding up and down as if on springs, eager to get his rations. As I returned to the kitchen, I saw Farmer H standing by my food-staging counter. Near the wooden holder of paper plates, engraved with "Everyday China." I thought, perhaps, he was tossing down some receipts. He does that after a week or so, enabling me to discover where our money has been trickling through the debit card.

"What are you doing?"

"Just getting some lunch."

"You didn't get mine, did you?"

"What do you mean, "yours?"

"From the tray. Mine is on my tray."

"Well...then I guess I got yours. I don't know what you're doing."

Then I saw it. MY pulled pork on a paper plate in front of Farmer H, naked, (the sandwich, not the Farmer), exposed to the air-conditioned atmosphere. "Where is my wrapper? I always leave it wrapped up! It's getting cold!" I dug the wrapper out of the wastebasket. It's okay. It was on top. An eclair with one bite out of it would have been safe there.

Farmer H got all mouthy. Can you imagine that? HE was in the wrong. Not me. I was reclaiming my pork. HE was the sneak thief. His food was in plain sight. I had even kept it warm, not aired it out like yesterday's wash.

I cannot imagine what our life will be like after The Pony heads off to college, and we are both retired. If a $1.50 pulled-pork sandwich sets me off now...Sweet Gummi Mary help Farmer H.