The S hocking Truth

Our farmer has been buying all kinds of fence chargers and they don't work like the old Sears fence charger that was built in 1974 and zapped like a charm until it finally gave out last spring. They don't make the parts for it any more so it went to the scrap heap. Since then there has been a Gallagher (PowerPlus! Good for 60 acres!) that wouldn't shock a flea, a Farmtek that would make you say "I think I feel something! There! That's it, isn't it?" And a Saaco that had enough juice to light the flashing light indicating that it was working correctly but not enough power to actually produce any shock at all of any kind.

Every time the farmer would go back to a different farm store and the farm clerk would explain why the fence charger didn't work, it was all because the farmer hadn't hooked it up right and all the voltage and amperage was flowing counterclockwise down the drain as if it were in the Southern Hemisphere where they have Christmas in July which would mean that it needed a better ground, with a minimum of 75 30-foot-long copper poles from NASA to work correctly.

"Oh really," the farmer would say. "Well how come the old one worked for 35 years with no problem?"

"Well," the farm clerk would say, and make a little French touche gesture, "they don't make them like they used to."

After the last episode the farmer said, "that's it," in complete disgust and now we have a charger that is rated to completely encircle Rhode Island three times. It is enough to hold Laddy and will probably hold Tommy. Willen will stay if the other two aren't going anywhere. Anyway, if you find an old Sears fence charger at a yard sale anywhere, please email us immediately.

In other farm news something far more shocking has happened to Big Orange. Big Orange used to be a high-kicking bucket-launcher. She was the bane of the milkroom. She was considered the Mayor of Crazy Town until the farmer started working in the city and the neighbor farmer started coming over to milk Big Orange. Somehow the neighbor turned Big Orange into an almost normal milker. So Crazy Town will need a new Mayor.

Luckily there are several deputy mayors waiting in the wings to take office.

Big Orange's granddaughter Pinky has been started in the milkroom even though she is not a milker just to keep her off the ballot.

In this photo she stuffs her face while Jimmy Jr., Jimmy's wether son, wanders mistakenly into the milkroom. No wethers allowed, Jimmy. Beat it.

The Cruel Twist

They had the Harvest Festival Farm Tour last weekend. This is where people go around our Peninsula looking at pumpkins and chickens. They track mud everywhere and park in the ditches.

The farmer came out to see if anyone might like to go and represent the goat kingdom at the neighbor's farm, which was on the tour. There was a big stampede out the back of the barn, led by everyone. Not even Tangy wanted to represent the goat kingdom.

"That is ok," said the farmer bitterly. "We don't need any of you. We have two nice goats from Minter Bay going."

And the farmer went off to help the farmer from Minter Bay who was bringing the two goats who had volunteered to represent the goat kingdom to the public. Only as usual the farmer forgot almost everything except one folding chair, so the farmer from Minter Bay who had gone to all the trouble of bringing the two "volunteer" goats also had to sit on a tiny postage-stamp sized chair that looked like something a hummingbird might perch on. That was while our farmer lounged on a full-sized comfy chair, not even looking apologetic.

Anyway the two volunteers were Filbert, Hannah Belle's son who has become a goat celebrity from last year's Harvest Fest where he got his picture on the front page of the paper. And George, aka Curious George, one of Alice's mini-mancha triplets from this summer. George is a baby and he put on a show of shivering and whimpering while Filbert chewed his cud in a blase fashion.

Filbert is known as a professional goat.

Anyway the public started coming and it turned out in a cruel twist of fate that Filbert once again was the Candy Goat. This means he was wearing a little pack and the pack was filled with candy. Good candy, like tiny Milky Way bars. Not sourballs wrapped in plastic and petrified candy corn.

So this made Filbert extremely popular. "Why don't you take a look and see what he has in his pack," the farmer from Minter Bay would say to the children, and they would look in the pack and give a little gasp of delight.

The people who owned the farm were selling animal treats for a quarter. So all the children had little sacks filled with peanuts and cracked corn and carrot slices. And they would all give Filbert something in exchange for their Milky Ways, so he had an excellent racket going, and spent most of the day licking his lips. That part was not the cruel twist.

The cruel twist was George, shivering and whimpering. He was the Trash Goat.

"Now don't forget," the farmer from Minter Bay would say. "When you finish your candy, put the wrapper in George's pack. He is the trash goat."

That is why I don't volunteer for any of these expeditions. Because even though I know someone gets to be the Candy Goat, I know there will also be somebody who gets to be the Trash Goat. And that is all the incentive I need to stay home.

LaMancha or Bedbug?

This is a picture of Maddy. She looks fairly normal but unfortunately she is crazy.

Hmm

Hello my name is Izzy. Million Belles is my mother. My brother's name is Ringo. I am two months old but hardly any attention has been paid to me since I was born which is odd because I am exceptional.

Anyway it's funny how people look at things and don't really see them because they have a fixed idea in their head and they can't change it just because it doesn't match reality.

The reason I mention it is all summer long people have been coming to look at the baby goats and the farmer always points to Terra, Hannah Belle's daughter, and says, "That's the pretty one." Or sometimes if Terra is having a bad hair day or an ungainly growth spurt the farmer points to Betty's daughter Iota and says, "That's the pretty one."

This went on all summer without fail, and sometimes the farmer wouldn't even remember my name but would say, "oh yes, there is another doe kid, that little black and white one there."

Anyway a couple of weeks ago was the state fair and for the first time in a long time the farmer did not take any goats. But on the day of the Nigerian show the farmer stopped by to watch. There were other farmers there too, and Gracie's and Zinnia's family was there from up the road, and the farmer from Minter Bay where my father the drive-through buck lives. And then there were also various goat big shots, and people who think they are big shots, and a lot of opinions were exchanged on which goats were the best goats.

But when everything was said and done and the Junior Champion was decided it was a goat named Not Quite An Angel. She is my father's full littermate sister.

Then there was a lot more parading and the senior champion was decided and it was a goat named Hardly An Angel. That's my father's mother. Then there was additional four-footed mincing and posing much to the chagrin of all the goats and the Champion Challenge was conducted and my father's mother won that too, beating Jackpot's mother and a goat named Rockette who had caused some of the spectator's eyes to goggle out of their heads. So my father's mother was Grand Champion and Best of Breed and Best Udder which is about all you can win unless you hit the bullseye in the shooting gallery, and then you can also get a life-sized stuffed bear.

Anyway when the farmer came home the farmer had a funny look and came right into the stall where I was jumbled up with a lot of other goats getting out of the rain, which has just started, and picked me up and held me up in the light and examined me closely and then said, "hmm," and put me down.

And every day since then the farmer has been coming back out and picking me up and petting me and saying, "Hmm," in a surprised way.

Anyway the way things were going I thought maybe my name got changed to "Hmm," but then a lady stopped by and asked which one was the pretty one and right away the farmer pointed to me and said, "Isabelle," oddly enough remembering my name right away.

"Oh is she for sale?"

"No," said the farmer. "Not any more."