You know how it is when something comes to your notice that, had you not seen it, would have trundled along to its ultimate destination but the fact that it registers on your radar compels you to act?
It happens to us on a regular basis; maybe we’re just too observant. In the past we’ve spent an entire morning locating the owners of the dog (his name turned out to be Roger) playing in traffic outside the Homestead gate and got yelled at by the owner of the wallet we picked up from the gutter and, finding no identifying information in it (but a sizable wad of cash), turned into the local police station with all the form filling in that requires because the owner “was backtracking anyway and would have found it” and he was “too busy for all this fluffing around” the retrieval of it required. We’ve intervened in bus stop bullying, picked up and rendered first aid to fallen folk, and run in an extremely ungainly fashion, gasping and waving, after a car with someone’s handbag on the roof. In a nutshell, as a group we’re not very good at looking the other way.
And so it was with Kormie.
But nature has now run its course and Kormie has shuffled off this mortal coil, crossed the rainbow bridge, gone to that chicken coop in the sky… Kormie has died. On discovery, The Milk Maid was not sure how much trauma counselling was going to be required for the various Homesteaders that had become quite embroiled in Kormie’s short but dramatic life.
“Ah well,” Farm Girl said on learning the worst, “we gave it our best shot.”
Which is not a bad thing to be guilty of, when all’s said and done.