Hick is Under My Skin Like Termites in a Creek Log

Hick has been quite productive today. By his standards, anyway. He has managed to get under my skin TWICE! Okay, thrice if you count this morning when I blamed him for the fitted sheet pulling off my side of the bed because he wallows and spins and wraps up in it like a burrito every night, and he had the audacity to proclaim, "I ain't done nothin'! I'm just layin' here!" I find it hard to believe that a wanna-be magician wandered in overnight, stood at Hick's side of the bed, and yanked that fitted flannel sheet from under us like a fancy linen tablecloth from under the china and silver at a four-star restaurant.

Next cat out of the bag, I caught Hick dragging a trunk under the porch. Okay, that's not as sinister as it might sound. Technically, Hick's oldest son, a regular adult wearing overalls and starting to look like Hick, drove that big tree trunk across the front yard in his truck, and backed it up to the front porch, where he and Hick dragged it out and put it at the corner by the downspout, near my rose bush.

I questioned Hick as to the thought processes that went into putting an old rotting tree trunk up under a wooden wraparound porch on a cedar home. Hick seems to think that his very special tree trunk that he dragged from the creek is not full of termites that will delight in a smorgasbord that will keep their family fat and sassy for generations to come. "There's no termites in that tree trunk! I got it out of the creek! You could see them if there were termites in it." So sayeth the self-appointed termite inspector. I'm waiting for him to adorn his very special tree trunk with an eternal flame that licks just shy of contact with the bottom board of the porch.

Hick made a shocking discovery on the way to the creek to get his very special tree trunk. We have surprise chickens! Three newly-hatched chicks, which were not expected yet, even though Hick knows he has hens sitting, just not where, or for how long. He usually catches one sitting in the chicken house, and stuffs a couple of days worth of eggs up under her. From that point, it takes 21 days for the little peckers to bust out. Hick wants to put them up in a separate pen until they are a bit bigger, but he can't catch the momma.

Oh, and according to Hick, "YOUR DOG TRIED TO EAT MY CHICKS!" Yeah. Right. My sweet, sweet Juno trying to eat fluffy fresh baby chicks? I don't think so. Upon further interrogation, Hick reported that he caught Juno SNIFFING THE NEW CHICKS. "She had her nose right up against them!" Um. That's what dogs do. Sniff things. Other dogs' anuses. Men's crotches. Groceries set on the side porch to await carrying in by a 16-year-old. Just-hatched chicks. Dogs don't eat everything they sniff. Laws, no! M-O-O-N. That spells we'd be in a world of trouble if dogs ate everything they sniffed, because other dogs would have no anuses, and men would have no crotches, and people would starve to death.

I will not believe Juno was trying to eat baby chicks unless I discover her with tiny feathers clinging to her gums, and three chicks seem to be missing. TRYING to eat baby chicks? If she wanted to eat them, they would already be eaten. Hick is not so powerful that his gaze falling upon her in the act would stop my sweet, sweet Juno from chickicide.

I'm sure Juno will be Hick's best friend when he grills steaks later this evening. I hope the deck does not collapse under them due to weakening by termite jaws.