Where's My Toothbrush?
What do great horned owls, tiny goats, and a toothbrush all have in common? They conspired to test my dedication to oral hygiene, aided and abetted by the sagging pocket on my Carhartt jacket.
Hearing owls almost every evening, I know I need to tuck the baby goats into their coop at night. I do this as late as possible so they can get a good meal before bed. So when I stagger out there just before bedtime, and struggle with the awkward door while squirming goats leap up to lick my face, it's possible for something essential--a toothbrush, for instance--to fall out of my pocket into the straw.
"Where's my toothbrush?" I asked Daniel as I pulled my backup brush out of the bathroom drawer. He didn't know. It wasn't in any of my usual spots. After a few days, I spotted it half-buried next to the kid coop. It says something about my general level of distraction that I put it in my pocket, then pulled it out that night and stuck it in my mouth without thinking about it. I thought my toothpaste just tasted weird. Then I flossed some hay out of my teeth. I'm not even going to talk about what else was stuck in the bristles of the brush.
Daniel, bless him, kissed me good night anyway.
I guess the kids are worth the trouble. They sure are good for my microbiome.