Chick Chick

It gives one pause. I have modified my workout schedule because of the aforementioned Chick. It simply isn’t prudent to put myself in an awkward situation; especially at 5am. Not enough people awake to hear the dull thump of my body hit the floor after I’ve been chloroformed. No one around to see me slumped lifeless over a shoulder as it is carried into the bunker hewn from concrete, hermetically sealed in a soundproofed room.

Yes, it gives one pause.

So, I have adjusted my schedule, going in the evening when I come home from work. Let me say right now that I am not an evening person. In most cases, in fact, I HATE being social or at all active after 7pm. I’m too tired, I’m too crabby and I’m just toooooo not in the mood. I would far rather come home, have a glass of wine (thus nullifying most of the benefits of any workout), make dinner, talk with my daughter about her day and watch my tivo’d episodes of Frasier. I then climb into bed at 9pm, read three paragraphs of whatever Agatha Christie novel I’m re-reading, and nod off to sleep. THAT is my perfect evening.

But now…NOW…I have to go work out at 7pm. And I’m not a little bitter. My only consolation is that somewhere in the world a Law and Order repeat is on the television which I can access. And if there is no one else in the facility I can drool over Sam Waterston to my heart’s content. Mmmmmmmmsammwaterstonnnnnnnnn.

I have tried to keep my dog’s schedule consistent, however. Buddy is too old to have his kidneys adjust to the rigors of ChickStalk. At the same time every morning, I walk my dog. I take him on the same route; the benefits are two-fold; providing Buddy consistency and more importantly, the route gets me back in the house to begin my daily ablutions for work. If you live in Northern VA, you will appreciate the need to hit the lower-traffic pockets on the commute. A loss of 30 seconds can prove disastrous.

This morning was glorious, warm enough to not need a jacket, cool enough to brace my lungs. Buddy capers in the cooler weather; birds trill, the sun rises, very few other dog-walkers on their canine constitutional.

Unfortunately, my path paces in front of Chick’s porch door and windows. As I walk by, whoops! Out he comes. “Do you see what they do to my yard?”

I was unprepared; “I’m sorry?” as I discreetly move out of arms reach.

“Do you see what they do to my yard?” As he gestures toward his 5’x5’ patch of grass, I note two orange peels, and a slip of paper. I also note the red, white and blue sheet Chick has used to cover his window on one side and the orange cloth of indeterminate origin that covers the other side. It’s a colorful combination.

“Ah, I see. I hope you are going to complain about it.”

“Oh, I’ve already written a letter.”

“Well, good luck! Have a great day!” I continue on with Buddy. It is not lost on me that he has made contact again. I don’t want to have to adjust my schedule or Buddy’s, but I will have to. There is a voice that tells me I am not being charitable; there is a louder voice that recalls every serial killer profiling book I’ve ever read and counsels me not to take chances. I’m listening to that voice.