My little sisters, Connie and Marilyn, raised their baby chick, Fluffy, in a cloth-lined box in the living room. He spent his nights in their room, going to sleep as soon as they covered his sweet, little head. He woke them early in the morning, peeping around looking for them. Cleaning up after him wasn’t really a big problem while he was a tiny chick. Fluffy spent his days with them, peeping and later clucking, right behind them.

As he got older, naturally he ate more, and made bigger messes, and was ushered outdoors. From then on , he longed for the warm times he’d shared with his “real family.” He ran to Connie and Marilyn as soon as they came outdoors, never leaving their sides. When they went in for meals or for the night, he hopped up the nearest window ledge and watched them mournfully. Thankfully, when his hormones kicked in, Fluffy noticed the lovely hens in our flock, and Connie and Marilyn were history. He didn’t even give them a look when they walked outdoors.

However, as Fluffy matured, he did suffer some social confusion. He quit yearning for the girl’s company, but he did not like them for them to ride Sugar, their horse, with a saddle. He had no problem with bareback riding, but when they saddled up to ride, he ran along beside Sugar, jumping up to attack the saddle. They had to run Sugar to get away from his crazed attacks.

Daddy had a mixed-breed dog who was especially aggressive when hunting wild hogs, grabbing them by the ear and wrestling them to the ground. He had never behaved aggressively toward people, but Daddy was concerned about the possibility, so he kept Sutter penned in a big pen with a snug doghouse. He hung a heavy burlap bag over the open door to shield his dog from the cold and wet. Sutter loved his doghouse and lay proudly with only his head sticking out in wintery weather. One night in the spring, during a heavy thunderstorm, we heard howling from Sutter’s pen. Daddy checked on his fine dog and found that Fluffy had faced him off and stood proudly in the door, dry as dust, while Sutter stood crying in the rain. Daddy was disgusted and left them to work it out.

Poor Uncle Joe was dying.  No doubt about it.  He’d been in bed for days, getting weaker and weaker.  Family “sat” with him around the clock.  Cousin Frank who’d been sitting for hours, finally just had to slip out to the bathroom.  Uncle Joe opened his eyes for the first time in days.  He smelled apple pie.  He was hungry!!  He just had to have some pie.

“Sally.  Sally”  No answer.  That pie was calling him.  With his last strength, he slid out of bed, so weak he melted to the floor.  Creeping on hands and knees, he finally made it down the long hall to the kitchen.  As he pulled up to the table and reached for the pie, Aunt Sally turned and smacked his hand, “Leave that alone, you old goat!  That’s for the funeral!”