My sweet, sweet Juno is getting a bum rap. There's an egg thief around here alright. But it's NOT my silky-coated pooch.
Sunday, Hick was in and out, puttering around with that dad-blasted old fence that he is now running across the front of the house. Because a couple-ten feet by the carport of peeling-white-paint picket fence was not enough against our cedar and green backdrop of homestead. Hick was like a chronologically-challenged Dr. Pepper. Instead of rearing his ugly head at 10, 2, and 4...he popped in at 10:00, 11:00, and 12:30.
I asked if he wanted us to bring him lunch, but at 11:00, Hick declared that no, he was having a ham sandwich from the Easter leavings. I distinctly remember him going into the kitchen to make it, because I had some potatoes, carrots, and onions in a roasting pan in the oven, and I told him that as soon as they were done, I was leaving for town. And I told him there was 7-grain wheat bread, not yet opened, from last week's shopping trip.
The Pony and I were running behind. It was going on 12:30 when we put on our shoes to go out the kitchen door. In walked Hick through the front door.
"Oh. Yous are still here? I thought you'd gone already."
"No. We're a little late. Do you want anything?"
"Just a snack. I'm out of cookies."
"Okay. We're going."
When we got home after 2:00, ol' Dr. HICKer was nowhere to be found. But in Frig II, as we put away groceries, it looked like some ham was missing. Not that I had any claim to it. There was still plenty for me to take in my lunches. But I thought Hick had pulled a fast one. When he came in at supper time, I asked.
"Did you have TWO lunches today?"
"No. Just a sandwich."
"You had that before we left. But I didn't notice so much ham was gone. Like it is now."
"Oh. I had two eggs and some ham."
Let the record show that Hick now keeps eggs from his chickens in the BARn Frig. Because I was tired of the whole bottom shelf being filled with five or six dozen of them before Hick took them to his buyer at work. So that meant he had to go to the BARn, put a couple (most likely 3 or 4) in his pocket, bring them into the house while we were gone, cook them, dispose of the shells, wash and dry his skillet, spatula, plate, and fork, put them away, and act like he never ate eggs.
Perhaps I've been giving Hick too little credit. He IS a master of deception. Maybe he really could be a spy...