Funny, That

It is strange how a goat can be really funny-looking and also very beautiful.

I am thinking of Big Orange. Big Orange is funny-looking. She is part Nubian, and she is bright orange, and she has little crooked ears that look like sugar bowl handles. There is no denying that she is funny-looking.

But she is also very beautiful. Everyone who comes to the barn says - "which goat is that?" and they point to Big Orange. There is just something about her.

And on top of that she has a way of looking at you like she has never seen you before but come to think of it she has always wanted to meet you. She walks right up to you, almost on tiptoe, as if she thinks you are asleep and doesn't want to wake you, but wants to get a really good look at you.

She studies you. Like she is memorizing you, in case you ever become separated.

Anyway, even with her exotic new name everyone still calls her Big Orange. But the farmer says it doesn't matter what anyone calls her now, because next spring after she has her kids she is going to go to all the shows, and then everyone will know her real name.

"After all," says the farmer, "when he was at home everyone called Secretariat Big Red. You just wait and see."

I'm not sure what that means. But I will wait and see.

Cruel YouTube Video

Is this type of thing really legal? Shouldn't the Goat Justice League in Seattle be called in on this? And the Horse Justice League?

Special Treatment for the Milkers

I am now down in the cabana pasture with the other Nigerians and all the minis except Peaches and Mabel.

Fancy pants Lucy and little brown-nose Joy were bragging about how they are staying up at the big barn with the milkers. Even Peaches, who is way down at the bottom of the pecking order, with only her own twin sister Mabel to boss around, was acting snooty.

Big deal, I said to myself.

Then came what I thought was the final indignity: Bertie the half-wit dry yearling was ushered up to the big barn, because she is going to be one of the milkers in the spring.

This left me and Hannah Belle and Breezy and Jammies and Tubster (what is her real name, anyway?) and Billie and Willa stewing in our own juices. We assumed the service would be very poor down where we were, and the big fancy milkers would get all the good food, and alfalfa instead of grass hay, and lots of cosseting that they don't need, being horribly conceited already not to mention fat.

But no: the food is pretty good down here, and so far a reasonable amount of it, even some halfway decent alfalfa.

But still the milkers were acting supercilious, because they had heard that they were going to get some special treatment. Well, a couple of days went by and someone pulled up in a little white car and got out and started putting a coverall on out of the trunk, and I said to myself, wait a minute.

Wait just a minute, I said, there is only one reason for a person to arrive and put a green coverall over their clothes, and that reason is that the person is a veterinarian. Ha!

Sure enough!

Pretty soon the milkers got their special treatment - shots in the ass and needles in their necks to take blood samples.

I tried not to laugh. But not very hard.

Ha!

Letter from Alcatraz

Hello everyone.

Yesterday I started to feel a little overheated in spite of the chilly weather and all of a sudden I got a strange idea.

What about the carbon footprint?

I'm not exactly sure what it is, but I know Wrusty knows a lot about it, and also Marquee, and that darling little Captain January, in fact all the bucks know practically everything there is to know about the carbon footprint.

And speaking of those gentlemen I noticed how really wonderful they looked yesterday and I was surprised I hadn't been struck by it before, in fact even last week I remarked to Hannah Belle what a disgusting bunch they were, but I must be needing glasses to say something like that because yesterday I couldn't imagine ever having seen a finer group of individuals assembled anywhere unless of course an Osmond Family photo session were under way.

So I squeezed through my private fence hole in the cabana pasture, and then I squeezed under the Willenized fence in the buck pasture, and then I sashayed - I just felt like sashaying, I don't know why - up to the pen where Marquee was blubbering and pawing and in general discoursing at a very erudite level about the perils of carbon dioxide.

Anyway, long story short, next thing I know I have a lead rope around my neck and I am being frogmarched up to the baby holding cell (Alcatraz) in the barn, where I am now in my second day of incarceration without ever having seen so much as a magistrate.

Well, I guess things could be a little bit worse - I could have been sent to the horse trailer (Guantanamo). But really. What about the due process? What about the jury of my peers?

No justice, NO PEACE!!!

My Possible Sabbatical

It is being decided right now whether I will go on sabbatical. Last year Breezy took the year off and did not have any kids and now she looks like a beach ball with legs, even though she doesn't get special milker's grain or anything extra-yummy because she is a dry doe.

The farmer thinks I should take a year off because I have had kids every year for the last four years, and last year I had triplets which ended up giving me milk fever since the triplets were a tad on the ravenous side, but that didn't really bother me since the farmer became my nanny and I got to loll about while my kids were drinking from their bottles, and got lots of extra food and treats and pampering.

I have to say, looking at the difference between my kids and Breezy's kids, that I think it would be a mistake to give me the year off, and if I do get the year off, I want to make sure that I do not have to try to squeak by on grass hay and a tiny smattering of cob, because that type of death march ration really doesn't suit my personality or my station in life, what with being Goat of the Year and so on among other honors.

And also not to mention it but excuse me, where are the fair ribbons won by the Breezy family?

Penrose's Daily Affirmation

Death and the Spokesgoat

Some things just will not die, like the farmer's old farm truck. The old farm truck is on DNR (do not resuscitate) status, which means that if it dies it dies and no more than $100 can be spent to save it. Goodbye, God bless you, thank you for your decades of thankless service, vaya can dios.

It is several hundred years old, anyway; I believe Lewis and Clark drove it out here from Missouri or wherever they came from. Anyway, you may remember the old farm truck from last spring's tales of Sammy and the F-150s, who lived inside it when they were babies.

Well last weekend within hours of each other the old farm truck (1978) and the new farm truck (1990) both appeared to expire within hours of each other at the most inconvenient possible time, causing the farmer to transport a large, amorous buckling in full rut inside a Honda which was not a matter to be attempted lightly or at all in my opinion but there you are. What can you do.

The farm truck was left to fester in its own juices down at the side of the highway for several days until the farmer felt like dealing with it. At that point it was towed home by a retired ex-marine from Puyallup and that is another story but not for these pages.

Anyway after a great deal of incompetent mechanicking around it appeared that the truck was suffering from a deceased carburetor, which if you go to autoparts.com you will see starts at around $214, not including installation, so funeral arrangements were commenced for the F-150. But not so fast.

Within minutes of the supposed demise of the F-150, a friend of a friend had managed a hookup resulting in a used (but perfect shape!) carburetor for $40.

So the death of the farm truck has yet to be finalized although I myself am not the type of goat who puts a lot of faith in pre-owned carburetors. On the other hand, the F-150 has had a rod knocking since 1998, so its will to live is not inconsiderable.

Anyway, we'll see. In other news, Penrose has been declared the farm's spokesgoat - "for now" - which I don't think is fair. It is only because she is so good at looking into the camera, which can hardly be considered a skill, if you ask me.

Under Every Tree

The Woods are full of them.

After our wettish summer the mushroom hunters are out in force. You see them everywhere, walking with their heads down and their beady little eyes scanning the ground, blind to everything but the fungi.

Most of them are looking for chanterelles, probably because they don't know any better.

But the farmer has been raking in Zeller's Boletus, an undersung mushroom and close cousin to the boletus edulis, the mushroom of a thousand names, including the cep, the cepe, the steinpilz, the Karl Johan, the varganya, the borovik, the penny bun. If you are a foodie, you probably know it by its plural Italian name: porcini.

Around here it is called the king boletus, and not for nothing, because it is pretty much the king of mushrooms. We don't find many king boletus, even in a year like this, because we are at too low of an elevation, but the humble Zeller's - homely as they come with its purple neck, its spongy underside, its dingy cap - is hiding in plain sight just about everywhere.

The farmer doesn't even bother with the flashy overpraised chanterelles any more, they take up too much space in the basket and they aren't as good, in spite of what some of the mushroom book writers have written about lowly Zeller's - "edible but not incredible", etc.

Ha. Keep your fancy chanterelles.