The Blessing of the Animals
The opossums are not killing the tom cats at the farm, despite my mother's theories. Owls. Bobcats. Coyotes. Motherfucking mountain lions. But not opossums.
These opossums are changed, she says, remember that they killed the chickens.
There were no witnesss to this crime, but mom is convinced it happened. It might have. It's almost a crime not to kill chickens, really. They are asking for it.
In other news, Mom took Billy Bad-Ass, our stray goat, to the Epsicopal Church she attends along with a lop rabbit named Bouncy Butt on the day reserved for the blessings of the animals. She just put his front feet onto the back of the Durango and then pushed him in and closed the hatch. He's a very bright goat.
An old woman was observing the line of dogs ready to receive the blessing with holy water (cats, somehow, aren't nearly as common) in which Billy was included. She tottled over to Billy, came within two feet of him, and then said:
"That's not a dog at all, is it?"
I haven't left California yet, but I really don't miss it at all.