From the Water Pail to the Hay Bale

Every morning, I wake up to the metallic shrieking of System of a Down blasting out of my phone. My sister, whose room lies adjacent to mine, often complains when she, too, wakes up at 4:45 in the morning to the rather unpleasant sound of the heavy metal band singing (yelling, actually) nonsensical lyrics about undercover cops and Peter Piper. Unfortunately for her, I have yet to find any other motivating force to propel me from the confines of my cozy nest of warm blankets so early in the morning. Why, you may ask, do I wake up at this ungodly hour? To perform the rather extreme (and time-consuming) task of feeding and watering 53 pigeons and 3 ducks.  As I drag myself out of bed into the comparatively frigid air of my room, I wince at the thought of bracing myself against the harsh Ohio wind chill, which seems a billion times more unbearable before the sun makes its first hint of an appearance from behind the row of pine trees that encloses my yard. I make my way down two sets of stairs, shivering once again at the prospect of the extreme temperatures that await me beyond the sliding doors of my basement. As I approach the stationary tub in my basement, I grudgingly grab the first two water buckets and place them in the tub, filling them up one by one.  I have long since lost hope for the hose outside--the cold has rendered it frozen solid.  Naturally.  As I fill the seventh and final bucket full of water (that will surely freeze over within just a few hours of sitting outside) I tug on my barn hat, adorned with pieces of hay and probably pigeon poop, grab the two nearest full buckets, and, ignoring the little voice in my head that constantly reminds me of my insanity, begin the long and tedious trek to the pigeon loft.  In all of my eighteen years, I have experienced nothing more extreme than that walk.  That slow, somber, dreary, dark walk.  In the cold.  Carrying a full bucket of water in each hand.  Of course, my innate clumsiness magnifies by about 500 at five in the morning, and more often than not I spill more than half of the water out of each bucket onto myself before reaching my destination.  Then, upon reaching the barn, I turn back to make three more trips to lug the rest of the water buckets from the basement to the barn.  After about 15 minutes of walking back and forth through the snow, I allow myself to fall into a mindless routine.  Deliver each water bucket to its respective animal pen or loft. Stare into the water and ponder the meaning of life. Check Twitter to see if anyone has anything interesting to say at 5:30 in the morning (or, if by some miracle, the superintendent has called a snow day).  Attempt to start a conversation with my ducks.  Contemplate my sanity (or lack thereof).  Feed each animal.  Check to see if any baby pigeons hatched.  Consider walking back to the house.  Hear the howling wind outside and decide to perch myself on my favorite bale of hay in the duck pen for a while longer.  Remember the calculus homework that I forgot to do.  Panic.  Run inside.  Marvel at the extreme absurdity of my morning adventure.