Waste Not, Want Not

Mattie wiggled her finger at Polly, and spoke in a soothing voice. "Poor, sweet, birdie-wirdie. He can't harm you now, Pollykins. Mummy's taken good care of things."

Polly managed only a weak squawk from her shivering, huddled stance at the end of her perch. She looked bedraggled, having lost some of her tail feathers as the result of emotional trauma. Old Pritchard had offered one insult too many to the sensitive bird.

Mattie berated herself for not having realized the reason for Polly's stress much sooner, but there was no time now to dwell on that.

She'd use the compost heap. It already reeked, so would suit her purpose just fine. She'd allow the body to decompose among tea leaves and garden rot for a few months, and after that the pile would make excellent fertilizer for the pumpkin patch. Mattie always liked to find multiple uses for things. Meanwhile, nobody would miss Pritchard. The old recluse had rarely ventured much beyond Mattie's garden shed where he'd lived the past year. She'd need to find another gardener eventually, which was a nuisance, but couldn't be helped. Now, hadn't she seen an old gunnysack in the wheelbarrow behind the greenhouse?

With an effort, Mattie rolled Pritchard into the sack, and then rolled Pritchard, sack and all, out onto the lawn. Goodness, the old man was heavy. What you'd call a dead weight. Her sense of humor was one of her best qualities, if she did say so herself. Good thing he'd been overweight and out of shape. She'd never have gotten the better of him otherwise, she herself being rather slight. Slight, but wiry, and spry. And there was nothing quite as useful as the element of surprise. Oops, she'd been so busy woolgathering she'd nearly forgotten something important. She opened the bundle, and removed the rope from around Pritchard's neck before retying the sack. Then she studied the compost pile.

Hmm, there was no way she was going to get his bulk on top of that heap. She'd have to reduce it by half at least. Once she'd done that, she'd be able to roll him onto it, and then she could fork the remaining debris back on top. This was going to be a full afternoon's work.

Should she take a break for a cup of tea first? No, soonest done, soonest mended.

Mattie threw one fork-load of compost off to the side. How was she going to make it up to Polly? Two fork-loads. Pritchard should have realized how fond Mattie was of her feathered friend. Three fork-loads. Cruelty to animals was a crime Mattie simply would not tolerate. She took a short breather, and then continued. Four fork loads. Good thing she'd never been able to train Polly to talk. Not that she hadn't tried. Just shows, though, some things work out for the best. Five fork loads.

There, it's low enough now. Drag him up... Goodness, this was hard. Maybe she could roll him... There. One more shove. A little breather. Shove... There, done! Now cover him up.

An hour later, Mattie eyed her work with satisfaction. My goodness, she was tired, and now she stank worse than the compost. Time for a well earned cup of tea, and a steaming tub with lots and lots of that lavender essence she'd been saving for a special occasion. But, first, fresh seed and a soothing chat for poor Polly.

On her way back into the house she noticed the peony buds were fat as ripe plums, and they were so heavy their stalks were trailing the ground. Fortunately, Mattie had, quite handy, just the thing with which to tie them. She always liked to find multiple uses for things.

© 2004 Margaret B. Davidson