Howdy,
I don’t know how many people in the world will have had this experience. But I have, so it comes to mind.
Covering an ostrich’s head with a hood.
Yes, putting a hood over an ostrich’s head—and neck, but only part of that neck—to “calm” it down, to transport it, or treat it, or whatever you have to do as a crazy owner of an ostrich.
We used to—when I was a junior high/high school kid—have a “fancy” drawstring hood for the job (I think, unless that was another visiting rancher’s), but I more so remember the cutoff sweatshirt sleeves. No, not wearing a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, which first strikes as kind of pointless but then the vision of a vest comes to mind and I’m left as confused, as this sentence amid the ostrich-talk is likely to do to the reader. Point was going to be that we cut off sleeves to use as the hood, slipping them over an ostrich’s head and down the neck a ways, which worked quite well: the size and length held it in place, which was over those gigantic and mesmerizing eyes that ostriches have.
That’s what settled those big, insane, oddball birds somewhat: not being able to see. Running 40 miles per hour in zigzags isn’t as effective if you can’t see, I suppose.
They really are weird birds.
Can’t fly. Humungous. Zigzags. Not to mention they eat rocks, sticks, and nails or anything else razor-edged and dangerous to the (sharp) point of being a mortal flaw.
This all came to mind when—well, I’m composing and crafting the details now, but the idea, the spark—I was dressing Riah on Wednesday morning for Community Bible Study and the boys’ picture day. I had him up on our washing machine because he’s too big for our old changing table spot, and the washer works out well for me, being that it’s tall and easier on my back than chasing him around and bending over to get a diaper or cloths or both on him whenever I can wrestle him down. (This really is like the ol’ ostrich days. We didn’t dress them, but I did wrestle more than I wanted to with the incredible African creatures.)
So, up on the washing machine, Riah’s reaching for this, and reaching for that, and kicking at whatever else, seeing if he can scoot something over the edge for a fall to the floor. Zigzagging.
I’m trying to get him dressed in a long sleeve. He’s turning at the torso and arching back for a reach at clothes pins chipped above, the underside of a wire-rack shelf. He even gets one of them, and I have to commandeer it, thinking I better before he tosses it behind the washer and dryer, always a fun place for small things, likely left to die among the dust and laundry lint.
Before Riah can grasp another one, I slip his shirt over his head—getting from over an infant’s head to properly on the body can sometimes take awhile—and I think like the ol’ ostrich hood.
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Living.
Word Count: 199,415 / On Pace: 199,100 / Year’s Goal: 200,000
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