Farm Fresh Blog

Life in the country comes with perks, like wildflowers, stars, and silence. But the flip side of those perks of living in the country is the mud, mosquitos and lumps. Yes, lumps.

People who live in the county understand the generic term "lump." A lump is an unidentified 'something' on the landscape that wasn't there earlier.

Let me give you an example: Years ago, I came home from work one afternoon to find an excited dog greeting me at the gate. Katy was given to wild affection, but her mood seemed particularly crazed that day. (It had been a good day for Katy.) That's when I saw the lump. There, in the back yard, was a red lump. Hmmmm. . .

I narrowed my eyes and noticed another lump. And another. In the country, lumps are usually not good things. In this case there turned out to be ten red lumps in the yard. Katy had managed to break into the hen house. There was nothing left of my rooster but feet and a comb.  Does this better define the word 'lump' for you? 

Which brings us to this morning.

"Yes, please, get to the point."

This morning I was walking the dogs when I noted Lily slow her trot to a cautious walk and raise her eyebrow. Something nasty was afoot. Ever watchful of snakes, I snapped to attention.  There, in front of Lily, was "a lump."

Dillon hustled over to examine the lump too. Since no one leaped back, I assumed the lump was not a coiled snake. That's a plus. It was gray. Now this is the part of living in the country where one talks to God. Living in the city, one prays for good parking spaces, living in the country, the prayers run a bit more like this:

"Dear God, please don't let that be another one of the neighbor's chickens."

As I got closer I couldn't see any feathers on the ground, but still couldn't identify it. It was small and gray.

"Dear God, please, please, please don't let that be one of the neighbor's cats!"

When I got over the lump I could see that my prayers were answered. No chicken. No cat. But Briar had indeed murdered someone.

(I didn't take pictures. It was gross.)

Briar had murdered a possum.

"I 'terminated' a possum."

And then, in true Briar fashion, she had licked it all night. Who knows if the poor thing was dead before she started licking it, or after hours of being used as an all-day (night) sucker. Much of its fur was gone. Briar was immensely pleased with herself. She is now three years old and a definite threat to anything not on hooves.

Other Half, who doesn't like Briar (big goofy, often wet dog) will be pleased that she killed a possum.  The neighbor with the chickens will probably be pleased that Briar killed the possum. Briar is most certainly pleased that she killed the possum.  But I feel just a little sorry for the possum and hope his end came quickly rather than spending a night of torture.

"Mmmm. . .  a possum-flavored sucker! Mmmm . . . "