Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Part 1. Goat Spring turns to Goat Winter.
Sometimes it seems very hard to get ahead in the world. You work and you work. And what happens. Nothing.
All summer I was eating blackberry bushes through the fence. Now the horses are in our summer pasture and the blackberries are just growing back. The horses are too high and mighty to eat blackberry bushes, all they will eat is apples and grass.
At first I was disgruntled about this but then I realized it is actually good. There will just be more blackberries when we go back in the front pasture.
We tried to put on a nice revolution and what happened. Nothing. The farmer fixed the fence and the Goat Spring is over. At first this seemed unfair but then I realized it keeps the milkers from hogging our meager supply of food. Sometimes the 'revolution' favors the fat. A fence can be better than a revolution.
I made a plan to become Top Milker some day and then I realized that I am not going to get any bigger and Wronny is about three times my size and I don't think anyone as small as me with no sisters has ever been Top Milker so it's probably impossible. But I did make some sisters, and maybe we can all pool our milk to become Top Milker together.
If not, we will just go around saying we are Top Milker, like Betsy does. Sometimes saying it makes it so. And after all, Top Milker is a state of mind.
Part 2. My brush with immortality, starring Abby.
A lady came over who was an artist and explained she wanted to do goat paintings.
The farmer did not know quite what to say so settled for "I see."
The lady suggested starting with a picture of a little goat and she pointed to me. "This one would be perfect."
"That's Millie," said the farmer.
"I could start with Millie," the lady said, then lapsed into a long story about herself and how she had become an artist because of her keen powers of observation and her sensitivity.
"I see," said the farmer.
The lady wanted to know if Millie (that's me) would be a good goat for a painting. She would take a picture first and then do the painting from the picture.
"Millie would be fine for that," said the farmer, mysteriously not mentioning Pebbles at all in spite of Pebbles' extreme talent for being photographed.
Then the lady explained to the farmer that she was going to observe me with her keen powers of observation before taking the picture so that she would be able to capture me perfectly. "Her inner essence."
"Okay," said the farmer. The lady studied me for several minutes with pursed eyes then she went to her car to get her camera and she came back and she spent quite a while using her keen powers of observation as she followed Abby around and then captured her perfectly on the camera.
"Thank you," said the lady as she was leaving. "And thank you, Millie!" she said, waving to Abby.
If you see a painting somewhere of a little goat that looks like it is from Oregon and it is simpering at the camera and the picture is called "Millie's Inner Essence" or something like that, I just wanted you to know that I do not simper and it isn't me.
Part 3. The Family Tree.
Some people came in late and they are confused about who I am.
I am Herron Hill's Million Belles, known as Baby Belle Jr. People call me Millie.
I am not the original Baby Belle. My grandmother Baby Belle was the original Baby Belle. Don't worry, we are doing an infographic about it.
Being Baby Belle is like being the Queen, or the Dalai Lama, or Punxsutawney Phil. You cannot choose it. It chooses you.