"Hey, Lady...

where do you want the pond?"

There's a big burly guy standing at the front door.  A truck and backhoe are sitting at the curb.  He's not intimidating in any way, but it sure looks as though he is here to do some heavy, laborious work.

"Pond," I inquire, "what pond?"
"I got a work order here says, I should install a pond in your yard, you want it in the front here, or in the back."

 I try to control my voice so Mr. Burly does not sense the panic I feel creeping up from my toes.

"I don't have room for a pond, front or back.  I think you must have the wrong house.  Can you tell me who ordered this work?"
"Says here,"  he said, pointing to the signature on the work order.  "Somebody called Your True Love."

Hoooonnnkkkk, hoooonnnnkkkkk honk, honk, honk.

Honk........honk........honk.

Oh, my...waddling up my driveway are seven swans...being herded by a dog and an elderly gentleman carrying a staff.  I'm surprised how easily the swans allow themselves to be led into my yard, and they immediately make themselves at home and begin to search out grubs and slugs lingering in my lawn and gardens.

Mr. Elderly joins Mr. Burly on my front stoop.  He hands me a note...I do not have to read what it says, I know these swans are a gift from you know who.  I thank Mr. Elderly for his time, and he and Rover make their way back down the driveway while I direct my attention back to Mr. Burly and the pond.

I finally convince him I don't need a pond, and to please contact My True Love and say I appreciate his offer but the swans are only temporary (I hope) and I will have no need for a pond.

"Okay, lady...but them swans really needs water...they loves swimmin' don't ya know.  Well, good luck to ya, an' Merry Christmas."  With a loud backfire, and a plumb of black exhaust Mr. Burly and his backhoe disappear.

I'm thankful for the creek behind the house, I think the swans might like it, but I'm also fearful for them because we have an abundance of coyotes in the neighborhood.  Frankie has great concern for their welfare too, and I concede we should probably herd them around the house and back to the sun room.  You cannot imagine all the cheeps, chirps, quacks, coos, and honks that are making music in the room. Oh, and let's not forget all the feathers, water troughs, and seed containers that are contributing to the mess strewn around, but at least my flock is warm, well fed and out of harms way.

However, the room is pretty much filled to capacity, I'm desperately trying to recall the verses to the song Twelve Days of Christmas...surely this has to be the last of the birds...I hope, I hope, I hope...  but, I guess there is no sense in worrying about tomorrow's gift until tomorrow.

Right now Frankie and I are going to fix ourselves a good stiff drink and maybe even get a little sloshed...it has got to be happy hour somewhere in the world, right?

Now, how does that song go...On the Eighth Day of Christmas, My True Love gave to me....la, la, la, la, la, la, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.