Name Calling

Like a proper parent, Pasquale had interrupted sleep the first night Little Stephen (I gave in a “little”) was adopted by his sheep mother.

Hours before the sun rose, one of Ca’Mazzetto’s horses jumped the wire fence and caused havoc outside of the barn. In the folly was the demolition of Little Stephen’s and mom’s hay bale quarters. It is likely that the mayhem caused the lamb to panic; with the hay bale structure disrupted, Little Stephen ran to hide. And because mom remained tied in the remnants of the quarters, she could not pursue her child.

The anguish over the loss of her baby resumed again. She cried and cried.

All of the bedrooms in the Farmhouse are on the same side of the house. Speaking for myself, I remained in slumber-land and am quite confident that the rest of the human inhabitants followed suit - with the exception Pasquale. Try as he wished, he could not escape the cry of mother and son and thus entered the farm-land in the twilight hours to reunite the desperate pair.

In the reasonable morning hours Pasquale reports last night’s incidence to me. “Pezzo di merda!” he growls referring to the horse.

Pasquale is teaching me my best Italian; “Pesce di merda” I repeat.

“No no no. No repeat. No good. I go mute.”

“Pesce di merde” I practice again.

“Pezzo di merda” he corrects (as he gives in a “piece”).