“No,” Joss said. “They’re Ameraucanas. They lay blue eggs.” He picked one up gently. “Here.” He put the baby chick in my cupped hands.
I couldn’t help but say, “Aw.”
And then it pooped. Right in my hand.
“Oops,” he said. “Occupational hazard.”
And then it pooped again.
“Let me—” he started, and I gladly tipped the chick into his hands. For some reason, I kept my hands together to prevent the mess from escaping, even though there was plenty on the floor.
He gently placed the creature back in its home, and pulled a wet wipe from a handy container hanging high above chicken level by the back door. “Here,” he repeated, his eyes laughing at me.
“I got it.” I grabbed the wipe, cleaning my hands as quickly as I could. “I’m a mom,” I said a little defensively. “A little poop doesn’t bother me.” Of course, chicken poop was a different story. “I better get back.” To wash my hands with bleach.
He opened the back door and I walked outside, the sun accosting my eyes again. Then I hit something slimy, sliding a whole two feet and wind-milling my arms before coming to a halt.
I looked down.
A hose had leaked, creating a slimy puddle of mud and chicken poop, which was now slopped all over my flip flops that were pointing in different directions, my feet solidly in the mess.
This time, Joss looked chagrined. “Sorry, sorry. I meant to replace that.…” He looked at my feet as if not knowing what to do, and then bit his lip, trying not to smile.
“I’ll…” Burn these didn’t seem nice to say out loud. “Just go…”
“Yeah,” he said, valiantly holding back laughter.
Men never outgrow poop humor.
I walked back to my dad’s house, futilely attempting to scrape the mess off my flip flops onto the tiny patches of grass that lined the sidewalks. That was sticky stuff.
My dad’s street looked like it could be in a seventies sitcom, with neat row houses, all the same white stucco walls and red clay tile roofs. Small driveways led to separate two car garages in the back, usually used for storage or workshops. Every yard hosted a few palm trees and a dried-out lawn that wasn’t doing a good job surviving the summer drought regulations. The houses on my dad’s side backed up to a huge family farm. The farmer had refused to sell to developers, so my dad had the best of both worlds. The convenience of all things suburbia and a wonderful view of open farmland. Of course, that open farmland smelled strongly of fertilizer at times, but it was worth it.
I tossed my disgusting flip flops and the poop-covered wipe in the garbage and used the garden hose to clean my feet before heading inside.
“Your phone rang,” my dad called out from the living room over the sound of Storage Wars, his favorite show.
I grabbed my cell and headed back to the stove, tripping over the now-loving cat who wound around my ankles and purred, clearly saying, “I wuv you so much. Isn’t it time to taste test?”
My Meowio Batali Gourmet Cat Food was marketed as organic food for the discerning cat, and many of my customers welcomed the most exotic of spices. But if Trouble didn’t like it, I dropped it. I’d learned early on that she never steered me wrong. If she liked it, it sold. If she didn’t like it, other cats didn’t either.
My whole business was inspired by Trouble. I’d found her, not even six weeks old, abandoned in an apartment when a tenant skipped out on the rent. Elliott and I immediately fell in love with her tiny orange face and white paws, and adopted her. Because of the splash of white on her chest, Elliott had originally wanted to call her Skimbleshanks, after a cat character in the musical Cats.
She’d had a lot of digestive problems, and the only food she could handle was what I made. That, combined with her natural kitten mischievousness, earned her the name Trouble.
Soon, friends started asking to buy little jars of the same food for their cats, which is how I learned that there was a demand for organic, human-grade cat food. I increased my production, cooking at odd hours when I could sneak it in around my job managing the apartment building where we lived.
When I’d tried to expand to farmers’ markets, I learned there were a lot of regulations I’d have to follow to make it a real business, including cooking all the food sold at the market in a certified kitchen.
My previous customers still demanded my original products, including the cute packaging, so I spent at least one morning a week indulging them. Their cats had benefitted from me learning how to add vitamins and other goodies to make the food more nutritious.
I’d already been up for hours cooking and packaging my Chicken & Sage Indulgence. The herbal smell bothered Elliott and my dad, so I liked to get the kitchen aired out before they even woke up. Trouble absolutely loved that recipe–she’d come running the moment the sage hit the sizzling olive oil and yelled at me to give her tidbits the whole time I was cooking. When I was done with production, I switched to trying new recipes.
My phone had a message from my best friend, Lani, but I had to finish up the chicken liver curry dish before calling her back. I’d also received an alert that someone had given my business a review on SDHelp. I clicked over to the site and saw that a J. Greene had given me one star!
I opened the app to read the review. I bought this cat food at the local flea market—
Flea market? It’s a farmers’ market, idiot. There’s a big difference. I read on.
I had high hopes for this locally-produced, organic cat food, but my cat took one bite and walked away. I couldn’t taste it–even I don’t love my cat that much–but I sniffed it and it smelled awful. A combination of chemicals and rotten meat. Will never buy again.
What? That was impossible. I’d never had a bad review like this. Once someone complained about the price, but I’d never be able to compete price-wise with the big guys. What should I do? Ignore it? Contact Mr. J. Greene and offer to replace it?
I put a few pieces of curried chicken into the refrigerator to cool while I mentally ran through my process. Since my dad got sick, I hadn’t always been in the commercial kitchen the two mornings a week I could afford to rent, relying on my cook who always followed my instructions meticulously. Could something have gone wrong with one batch? But then I would hear from more than one customer. I clicked on the website to see if anyone had left a complaint there. Nothing. I took a deep breath. Maybe it was an isolated incident. Or total bull.
To reassure myself, I turned to the page that had testimonials from my customers. So many of them noted how much healthier their cats were because they ate Meowio food.
“Mom!” Elliott yelled as he ran down the stairs, landing at the bottom with a thud. My son rarely did anything quietly.
I met him in the hall while my dad silenced the TV and stuck his head out to see what was going on.
“I got a callback for Horton!” Elliott announced as he threw his arms in the air in triumph and then fell on the floor in a dramatic faint, clutching his phone to his chest.
“That’s awesome,” I said, pushing back the guilt that I’d totally forgotten about his audition for theater summer camp. Starting on Monday, he’d be spending two weeks with a bunch of other drama kids on a musical—his idea of heaven. On the last Friday, the whole camp would perform Seussical the Musical. “Isn’t Horton one of the leads?” The musical incorporated a couple of Dr. Seuss books into one plot including Horton Hears a Who.
Elliott rolled himself up and jumped to his feet, his dark brown