At about ten on a Sunday evening in March, I received a phone call from my friend Graham. He lives with his wife on the mountain above us and around the corner from Connie and Ritchie’s house. Graham is a craftsman, turns beautiful wood bowls, and does local art shows. He seldom calls me; usually, his wife Sue wants to talk. So I was surprised to get his call.
“Hello, Graham. What’s up?”
“Kathy, I was looking out my window a while back and saw an ambulance racing along the road up here. Did you happen to see it?” His voice was shaky, and I braced myself.
“No, I didn’t. So what’s wrong, tell me?”
“The ambulance came around again, but his time, it went down Ritchie’s driveway. I hurried into my coat and followed it down to the house. I….I don’t know how to tell you this.”
I immediately thought of my friend and asked, “What’s wrong, Graham…is it Connie?”
“That’s what I worried about, too…what with Connie’s strokes. A man opened the door, and once inside, I saw Ritchie on the floor with an EMT hooking him up to oxygen, and someone else was performing CPR, pumping his chest. Connie was standing behind them, looking scared. They worked on Ritchie for a long while but ended the CPR. He’s gone, Kathy. Ritchie’s dead. They’re pretty sure it was a heart attack.”
“Oh, my goodness! Ritchie? I can’t believe it. Did you talk to Connie?”
“Yes, she kept repeating the same story. She was in the kitchen, washing the dishes, when Ritchie came inside after feeding the chickens. She saw him sit in his chair, pick up the remote, and click on his favorite show. Without saying a word, he fell forward and slipped to the floor. Connie hurried over, realized his condition, told him he’d better not leave her, then called 911. Guess the EMT took down the wrong house number, or they missed spotting it because the ambulance went past their house the first time. I’m shocked; this is truly awful. I like both of them, and Ritchie’s been a good friend; he fixed my car several times. My wife, Sue, she’s really upset.”
I covered my eyes with my free hand. “Tell me the rest.”
“Connie sat in a chair while they took down all the information. You know, Ritchie’s name, age, address, doctor, meds, what happened; they also asked if he’d been sick. Connie looked like she was in shock but answered all the questions while the attendants got Ritchie ready for the ambulance. While they were doing that, Connie called Ritchie’s first wife, Annie, and his daughter, Danielle. They both live near Murphy’s Hospital. Connie told them the news. Once she put the phone down, I walked over, hugged her, and told her to call me if I could do anything to help. That’s it, pretty much. I cannot believe Ritchie’s gone, Kathy. He was a good man.”
“I know, I agree. Do you think I should call Connie tonight?”
“I asked her about that, and she said there was so much to do, funeral arrangements, and so many people to call. Said you should wait until tomorrow. She’ll call you when she gets a chance.”
“Okay, thanks for letting me know, Graham. Connie’s gonna need good friends now, and I am sure you and Sue are at the top of her list. Take care. Give my love to Sue.”
*
Four days later, Al and I went to Ritchie’s funeral. We saw Graham and Connie in the parking lot and walked in together. Those waiting inside were family, some from Florida, some from New York. Everyone seemed shocked because Ritchie had died so suddenly without any warning signs, or so it was assumed at the time. A priest gave the eulogy and talked about a man he didn’t know who’d been in the Army and died too young. Before we left, I hugged Connie and promised to help her through this tragedy.
Reality hit Connie like a punch in the gut, taking the wind and heart out of her sails. I think she suddenly realized she was on her own. A few days later, after her family left, she came to my house, and we discussed what she needed to do. Because she had no funds for the funeral and cremation expenses, she needed to borrow money from Annie, Ritchie’s first wife. Nine months later, she paid it back, saving a little each month from her disability check. We made a list of the things she’d have to do right away, like obtaining a death certificate, closing his checking account, applying for widow’s benefits, and notifying Social Security of his death. She’d need to stick to what she must do right then and leave the worries of tomorrow for later. It all mounted up and seemed to overwhelm her then, but she rallied ‘round and did what she needed to do.
*
Ritchie had no life insurance but did have a meager widow’s benefit through Social Security. All he’d left her were memories. Memories won’t buy food for lots of dogs, forty chickens, one goose, and a hand full of ducks. Thank goodness Connie had paid her mortgage off over the twenty years since she bought the house. But all the other costs and bills were daunting.
At first, she balked at my suggestion, but eventually, she went to food pantries in the area. A woman in one of the local churches bought her dog food for a month. Then, someone else told her about a non-profit organization that donated bags of dog food and distributed them to those in need so their pets wouldn’t starve. All that helped, and so did the many people who loved Connie. I had thought for a while that she’d been a hermit, rarely getting out or having friends outside of her animals and a couple of nearby family members. I was wrong.
Soon, I learned about a gay couple who checked on Connie every few days. They’d drop off food and sometimes money, buy more of her eggs than needed, give her an almost new refrigerator, and love her completely. Graham was a real friend, too. She couldn’t get her outside water line on because turning the tight faucet with her one good hand was difficult. Graham was there to get it going for her. When a tree fell across the driveway in a storm, Graham brought over his chainsaw and cut it into manageable pieces. During her first summer alone, dozens of black snakes slithered into her coops after the eggs, scaring the hell out of the chickens and Connie, who feared them. Graham, an animal lover, took care of them for her, even though killing the snakes was hard for him to do. Her HVAC unit was only five years old, but it broke down, and she didn’t have the money to repair it. That first winter, after Ritchie died, she had to use her fireplace and burn wood for heat.
Then, there was her kind and loving son-in-law, JR. He worked over three hours away, but one weekend a month drove to Murphy and helped her with the heavy stuff, cleaned out the coups, and hauled feed for all the animals. JR was Connie’s fix-it man, and she could not have survived that first year alone without his help. Her truck was seventeen years old and had its problems. JR repaired it when the brakes went out or replaced a part to keep it going. Even so, she cut back on trips to town to save on gas. With so many almost insurmountable problems, it would’ve gotten anyone down. But Connie got through those problems because of the help and devotion of good friends and family.
Someone questioned me during the initial crisis about her many dogs. They wondered if it wouldn’t be better for Connie if she gave them away because she was surely facing real poverty. Most of her dogs were over sixteen years old, one was blind, and many had been strays. Finding most of her dog's new homes would be almost impossible, especially since none were puppies. She often told me she’d feed her animals first if it came down to her or them. I realized she’d cut back on her food to have enough for her dogs and chickens. I slipped her money occasionally, but she was uncomfortable taking it. I also did many other things to help her in ways that mattered. My main goal was to keep her going.
A year after Ritchie’s death, she had lost a lot of weight, looked drawn to me, and her clothes were often muddy and well-worn with a strong hint of chicken and dog. I loved her just the same, of course. That’s what love is about. Of course, it’s easy to love someone when everything is rosy. But, when things are at their worst, people must know they are loved. I hope I have accomplished that.
What helped Connie get over Ritchie’s death and begin to live again with hope were her animals. They were her reason to live. She’d get up at the crack of dawn, have a cup of coffee, then go out and fill the chicken’s feed buckets, put water in their bowls, and toss food to the ducks and her big goose. She had a routine where the dogs went out first thing in the morning to do their business and then returned to the house for breakfast. It worked. She focused on what brought her joy and tried not to dwell on her loss or worrying finances. It sounds so simple to say that animals helped her to realize there was life after Ritchie died. Still, by focusing on something other than herself, she was able not only to survive but eventually to thrive. She’ll never be wealthy, but her bountiful life has given her what money can’t buy.
DUCK DUCK
Connie had a goose she called Duck Duck. Cute name, but not so cute goose. Duck Duck was a pure white attack bird who bit almost anyone who came onto the property, usually in the behind. He often honked like the crazed bird that he was, flapping his wings wildly to scare off intruders or random people. Connie said there was only one person that Duck Duck would not bite, and it was me, but I do not know why he spared me his wrath. He was about four feet tall and had a wingspan of almost five feet, a nasty look in his eyes, and was devoted to Connie. Although she loved Duck Duck, she also hated him at times. I understand that goose is a delicacy served in fine restaurants, but Connie would never eat an animal she’d named and raised. I’d heard her say that many times.
*
Two men drove down her driveway in an old pick-up truck the day after Ritchie's funeral. Later, it became apparent they had seen Ritchie’s obituary in the paper and hoped to talk Connie out of her late husband’s tools and equipment. They’d counted on a desperate widow who would need some quick cash. What they had not counted on was Duck Duck. Unaware of the threat that was honking near them, the men tried to convince Connie to sell them her almost new riding lawnmower, pricey power tools, and other equipment she’d stored in her shed… at a paltry price, I might add. She immediately realized they must’ve stopped by her house while she was at the funeral because they were too familiar with the items in her shed. This may not come as a surprise, but Connie can shoot a can of Mountain Dew dead-center fifty yards away. She keeps a loaded shotgun by her kitchen door, just in case some real low-life stops by to hassle her… like the two despicable men had done that morning.
Connie didn’t need the shotgun for those men from the dregs of society. She had Duck Duck. At a critical moment, after she allowed the men to think they’d be getting the tools they’d seen, she opened the gate to the pen and yelled at her white knight: “Duck, Duck….get ‘em!”
Duck Duck charged the two men, who scrambled into their truck. As they struggled up Connie’s steep hill, Duck Duck followed behind them, honking with his wings spread wide and threatening as though possessed by a demon. Later, Connie told me she watched it all transpire with a ‘shit-eating grin’ on her face. The men never returned.
*
After several months, Connie could no longer afford to pay for Ritchie’s used car, bought on credit not long before he died. It was an older model compact car with low mileage, but she had no choice but to give it back to the bank holding the note. I’d asked my husband Al if she could just give a car back to a bank without negotiating a payback amount or something more formal. He thought that sounded improbable. Nevertheless, she called the bank and told them she was now a widow on disability and had no money to pay for her late husband’s car. A few weeks later, and without any forewarning, a man and his girlfriend drove their compact car down her driveway. He’d been hired by the bank to repossess the vehicle. While he and Connie stood outside discussing the issue, his girlfriend was fascinated by Duck Duck, who was honking and flailing his wings inside the duck pen. Connie watched the girl out of the corner of her eye, afraid Duck Duck would try to attack the repo man’s friend and nip her behind. Once Connie signed the repossession papers, they left. The repo man drove Ritchie’s car, and the girl drove theirs.
*
Then, late one night, Connie’s guard dog Rocky started growling. She got out of bed, decided not to take the gun, but slipped outside. The repo man with his girlfriend were in the near dark, trying to steal Duck Duck. Connie snuck out to the duck pen, picked up her rake, and smacked the man hard on his back. He had been holding an extra-large animal crate (to transport Duck Duck). When she delivered the blow, he dropped the crate. Connie quickly looked around. She could see no car, so they must’ve walked down the driveway to her house. Then she opened the gate to the duck pen and once again yelled: “Duck Duck…get ‘em!” Need I say more?
The giant goose chased the two attempted goose thieves up her hill to their car, which they’d parked on the road above Connie’s house. They jumped in their vehicle and took off into the night.
When Connie told me her story, she laughed hilariously, getting some small pleasure from losing Ritchie’s car to two failed bird thieves. However, one good thing did happen. They left her a new animal crate she uses to raise her chicks in once they’ve hatched.
*
There were all sorts of predators in Connie’s world. The men who tried to steal her tools, the man and his girlfriend who wanted to steal her goose, a man who stole her Pug and left town, and the critters who tried and sometimes succeeded in stealing her chickens.
Around the bottom of the chain-link fencing surrounding the coops, Connie and JR had stacked small rocks to keep the chickens inside and the predators outside. Unfortunately, during our rainy season, the fast-moving water flowing downhill would sometimes dislodge the stones, making it possible for the chickens to escape or a sly fox to dig himself a way to get inside the coops.
Connie set up a trap when she found three chickens missing with feathers still floating everywhere. She loaded her shotgun and waited patiently for the fox to return. When he did, he was sorry. Connie shot him dead. Not because she wanted to kill him to get even, but because she loves her chickens, and their eggs mean money in her sometimes empty pockets. At the least, that fox couldn’t return and kill any more chickens. Then there were the hawks who’d dive-bomb the grounds, grab chickens in their claws and fly off. Connie shot at them but has never killed a hawk. Later Connie told me she intended to scare ‘the crap out of them’ so they’d not return.
COCHISE
A man in our neighborhood purchased several laying hens and a mighty fine-looking rooster, then allowed them to free range on his property. Then, something began to steal and kill the chickens, most likely a weasel or a fox. When his fancy rooster was found dead but intact, the man blamed dogs in the neighborhood (i.e., my Murphy), thinking a dog had been the culprit. She laughed when I asked Connie if she’d ever seen a dog go after a rooster. They’d be pretty dumb to go after a rooster, she said. Those birds have sharp talons that could rip a dog apart.
Chickens are not hardy. I learned this from the woman I told you about who owned the chicken farm and other people who raised chickens. I also knew that one could easily scare a chicken by making a loud noise or moving it suddenly from one place to another.
Connie had a flamboyant rooster named Cochise, whom she loved to pieces. He had stunning colors and wild tailfeathers, and many admired his early morning crow. She was filling the buckets with chicken scratch when Cochise hopped up on the chain-link fence post and crowed, crowed, and crowed. Then he dropped over dead as a doornail right at her feet. When I asked her why… she said he was five and died from old age.
Sometimes, when I’d see that Connie was calling on my landline, which she often did, I’d hesitate to answer. Al doesn’t understand the enjoyment two women can experience talking to each other on the phone. It was not any different between Connie and me. We always enjoyed our phone time together. However, I never knew when her call would be about one of her animals dying. I hated hearing the sad details because it upset me, but she seemed to need me to help her overcome the loss. She lost several dogs to old age the first couple of years after we moved there. Then her beloved Blondie, the stray Lab, died, and she hadn’t been sick or listless. Connie lent a male Pug to a man she thought she knew who needed a stud, and he skipped town with the dog.
Luckily, Connie has a good veterinarian that she’s known for twenty years. He’s aware of her situation, and I think he treats her dogs and doesn’t charge her much if anything. But, like me, taking a beloved animal to have a veterinarian put them down…tears her apart. So Connie avoids that sort of intervention with every ounce of her being. She’s promised all her dogs that they’ll have a home with her until they die, and she’s kept that promise with few exceptions. Ritchie buried most of them, but Connie took over that duty after he passed with some help from Graham. She buries them on her property and can show you each grave because she plants a small flowering tree or shrub behind them to honor their lives. It is not unlike my simple prayer to send their spirits home.
CHECK BACK AGAIN SOON FOR THE NEXT POST OF GUARDIANS OF THE ROAD.
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