The Miracle of the Loaves, the Fishes, and the Toggenburg

Blue Umbrella has two daughters. They are my cousins. Their names are Blue-Eyed Elaine (Lainey) and Rainy Day (Rainy). Lainey is a mama's girl and stays by Blue most of the time. Oh, she will do a commando assault on the alfalfa stack, sure, but she keeps one eye on her mama while she is sneaking past the security guard. And she comes when Blue calls.

Rainy is a stone-cold hoodlum and does as she pleases.

So what kept happening was this. Dinnertime came and everyone queued up by the gate, jostling to be first to run into our night stall where we get our grain and hay. The farmer opened the door and we all rushed in like a dam breaking and the farmer closed the door and went on to the next thing. That was the system and everyone followed it.

Except Rainy. She would be dancing on our little patio or sticking her head through the fence to grab some blackberry leaves or sleeping or insulting one of the big LaManchas from a safe distance or something like that. And she wouldn't come in for dinner.

The first few times the farmer went and got her. Then Rainy started scampering and fleeing when she saw the farmer. Then the farmer said, "fine. Sleep with the big milkers and no grain and no milk all night. See how you like that."

The next morning the farmer would come out and Rainy would be desperate, yelling to her mama for milk and running around in circles thinking that one more magic circle would probably cause the dinner door to pop open like she was in an Aladdin movie or something. And when Blue would come out in the morning, Rainy would rush up to her and start guzzling milk in a panicky manner even though she is too fat already.

That happened for a couple of nights. But then on the third night, Rainy looked up quite casually when Blue came out in the morning, as if to say, "oh hi, nice to see you, how have you been, is that a new haircut." She didn't even try to get any milk.

"That's odd," said the farmer.

Woops I have to go. Part Two tomorrow.