Please, Lord, Don’t Let Me Die Of Pizzle Rot

via Please, Lord, Don’t Let Me Die Of Pizzle Rot

Please, Lord, Don’t Let Me Die Of Pizzle Rot

It’s time for another blog post. How do I know? Because I’m so tired these days that the only time I’m not too tired to write is when I’m buzzed on the suds of a panic attack and Diet Coke. Yeah, I know, switch to decaf. I sit here drinking my Constant Comment tea (which is a stupid name for tea, as who wants anyone constantly commenting on anything? Dammit, that’s what mothers are for—we don’t need Mrs. Pots doing it, too.) I know it’s caffeinated, but if this is me OVER-caffeinated, you definitely don’t want to see me UNDER-caffeinated. As I roll through life, I find that going through the peaks and valleys has me gathering debris like a sticky tumbleweed. Bumbling along we go, picking up some McDonalds wrappers here and some pink fuzz there, ‘til I’ve got too much momentum and the only thing to do is to go rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ in front of a Mack truck so it can drop-kick the rubbish right out of me and I can just go back to being a cumbersome kochia weed in somebody’s yard. (Calm down, Jane, that wasn’t a cry for help, I’m just trying to paint a picture here.)   I just get to gatherin’ too much speed and start to spin off the ground ‘til I shore as heck ain’t in Kansas no more. If somebody calls me an intense person ONE MORE TIME…I guess they wouldn’t be too off-base. I apologize if you have to take a sedative after interacting with me. But anyway, that’s how I know it’s time for another grossly inappropriate, public spewing of emotions. ‘Cuz I’m feelin’ a wee bit intense today, lads. As a good friend of mine says, “It’s time to drain the pain pool.” Of course, she’s usually referring to therapy, not a broadcasted uncorking of the feelings volcano that is my entire being. Time to diffuse this bomb. That’s the other reason I know it’s time to write. My metaphor button gets stuck and analogies come out of every orifice like…I’m just gonna stop myself right there. Clearly I’m not feeling heard in some way, so I just keep repeating myself like OJ’s attorney. Oops, there I go again.

 

So, what’s on the agenda today? Shall we begin with my recent experience with postmortem explosion or with my utter failure, as a mom, to be anything more than an actual udder?

 

Let’s talk about Shirley. We recently acquired four bum lambs from friends of ours raising a flock of hair sheep. The girls named them Shaun, Shirley, Jamie, and Bulldog Burnett. (Double points for you if you get both references. Call the office to arrange a time to pick up your t-shirt, which says, “I don’t always have all the answers, but when I do, I try to be CALLER #9!”) The kids and I have adored nurturing these little ovine, feeding them bottles and making sure they don’t kill themselves (the latter being a full-time job). It seems that sheep aren’t the hardiest of animals—all you’ve got to do is look at them sideways and they flop over, dead. Sheep heaven must be a helluva place, ‘cuz they all can’t wait to get there.

About a week ago, the girls and I cracked the back door on a sunshiny day, bottles in hand, and found only three sheep. My amygdala instantly knew something was atrociously wrong. Sure ‘nuff, there Shirley lay, pink nose and black eyes still, with her neck stretched towards heaven like a pensive star-gazer. Icky. Ruthanne, ever the realist, says, “Mom, is Shirley dead? She’s lookin’ kinda weird with her eyes open like that…”

“Yup,” says I, the eloquent mommy blogger.

Then, Miriam, ever the passionate ponderer, asks, “Mommy, did Shirley go to heaven to be with Jesus?”

“Yup.”

Ruthanne looks at both of us quizzically before declaring, “Shirley’s not in heaven, Mom, she’s in the back of the Gator!!”

“Yup.”

I am articulate AF.

And you thought that cute little anecdote was the end of the story, didn’t you? Actually, I spent the better part of the afternoon seeking answers to the inevitable question, “Why did Shirley die? (Other than just having the unfortunate luck to be born ovine).” I made the mistake of reading the entire section on “Things that Go Wrong” in my Shepherd’s Guidebook. Did you know that sheep often perish from a condition called, “backing”—the technical term for when a sheep falls over onto its back and can’t get up? I found “pinning” to be intriguing as well—this being when a sheep poops and its tail gets “pinned” to its anus, leading to death by what I assume is impaction-due-to-a-glued-shut-butt. However, the worst death of all, in my opinion, is infection of the ram’s penile shaft, commonly known as “pizzle rot.” LOL. Death may not be a laughing matter; but honey, if you croak from pizzle rot, you best not be expectin’ a somber funeral.

Alas, I didn’t find much helpful information that might have pointed us towards Shirley’s cause of death. She helped us out later, though, by making it amply apparent. I wasn’t going to suggest an ovine autopsy, but the Divine Judge nevertheless deemed one necessary, and dear Shirley henceforth exploded. You read right, friend. She bloated right up and split like a sweet sack o’ wet barley. Turns out she was full of wood shavings. And this is where my mind decided to save itself from a mental breakdown and I went into a real comfortable dissociative episode. I don’t really know what happened after that, other than my dear husband disposed of the body and I discovered yet another perk to living in the country: turns out, when things get REAL bad, you can just walk into the woods and scream, “F&#@!” REAL loud. (Helpful Hint From Heloise: Do NOT attempt if you live in town, or the nice officers of the law will be sashaying up to your door.)

And then there were three (sheep, that is).

 

On to topic #2: I am extremely reliable as a milk producer but liable to let you down in most other ways (yay for milk puns!). The girls have vacation bible school this week, so I thought this would be a great opportunity to practice being on time. False. Back story: Ruthanne starts Kindergarten in the fall, and we have to leave the house by 6:45 to get her to the bus stop on time at 7:20. *Puts hands on cheeks and imitates Munch’s “The Scream.”* Vacation bible school starts at 9:00. We rolled in at 9:25 today and walked down the aisle of shame, stained glass Jesus’s and all (actually, I ditched my kids at the door and let them walk in alone because my backbone is floating tranquilly in a sparkling vat of unspeakable cowardice). This, my friend, is the definition of “Mom Fail.” General feelings right now: I CANNOT DO THIS. MY CHILD WILL BE DEEPLY SHAMED THROUGHOUT LIFE BECAUSE OF MY FAILURE AS A TIMEKEEPER AND SHE WILL PROBABLY RESENT ME FOR ALL TIME AND AS A CONSEQUENCE BECOME DEEPLY INSECURE, THEREBY BECOMING A RAVING HOMELESS BAG LADY. I’m not sure why, but all my anxieties in life seem to stem from a fear of me or someone I love becoming a homeless bag lady. I should probably seek help for that, but I’m just gonna go ahead and shove that endearing revelation back down.

 

So, here we are, just living a downright damn wholesome life. Please, Lord, just don’t let me die of pizzle rot.