Apres Moldy le Déluge

It is raining right now but to say that it is raining doesn't really convey the watery reality of what we are experiencing. Every ten minutes or so we get a day's worth of rain, probably one of the record dry days that we had this summer which toward the end made Moldy say, "I am tired of all this sunshine I don't care if it rains all winter long."

So it is Moldy's fault.

Don't worry we will punish her but really it is a kind of no-fault rain that only happens here. It doesn't happen every year but when it does it really does. It is now. It is raining a humbling rain, great sweeps of it thrumming across the meadow. The cottage roof is leaking into a collection of saucepans spread about the bedroom and living room. The gutters are dripping over their sides. Lost Beaver Lake is almost full. The barnyard is a mud pit. There is thunder in the distance. Even Willen went into his run-in, and he is gazing blankly out at the rain, ever so slightly taken aback. It takes a lot to take Willen aback. He doesn't usually go aback.

Bumbles is crying, she got trapped outside. I might let her in later, but I would have to get up and push the door open, and that seems like a lot of trouble. The wind slammed it shut.

It is Tom Robbins rain. It has no plans to stop. I know we mentioned it before, but here it is again, still worth mentioning, since it is the main feature of our life right now. We are waiting, as we always do, for a miracle. We are waiting quietly. There is a hush.

Except for Bumbles.

"The rains will steal down from the Sasquatch slopes. They will rise with the geese from the marshes and sloughs. Rain will fall in sweeps, it will fall in drones, it will fall in cascades of cheap Zen jewelry...And it will rain a fever. Mossy-haired lunatics will roam the dripping peninsulas. Moisture will gleam on the beak of the Raven...Rain will eat the old warpaths, spill the huckleberries, cause toadstools to rise like loaves...And it will rain a miracle..." ~~~~~~ Tom Robbins

VCP

Hello this is Millie and my vacation is over because I got tired of waiting for Belle Starr to update the blog. She was too busy watching Xie Xie. Xie Xie is a funny one she likes to watch maple leaves fall from the big maple tree and she picks out a certain exact one that she wants to eat and once it comes off the tree she starts running a dizzying zigzag, head back like a centerfielder, as it swirls down to the ground. Because she wants THAT ONE and not one of the ten million other ones. So Belle Starr, who is a lot smarter than Xie Xie, uses Xie Xie as both a leaf selector - she does have good taste in leaves - and a leaf alarm. She naps with one eye open but then when she sees Xie Xie making the final approach to the premium leaf, she swoops in and takes it. This is pretty much a full-time job.

Vaya con Dios, Juniper Breeze

And the blog really needed updating. Because we lost Breezy. She got very sick at the end, so it was a blessing and a mercy that she went. She will never be forgotten; she was one of the Mayflower goats. She came over from Eastern Washington with Baby Belle, and Penrose, and Snow Pea. Breezy always had good timing: she left the day before the first hard frost, right after we finished the last of the apples. Breezy was the second oldest goat here, after Brandy, who is 13, and in honor of Breezy it has been decided that we will not call Brandy an Old Bag any more, from now on she will be referred to as a Vintage Coach Purse, which is much more respectful.

By this simple device we have undone the partisan gridlock of the front pasture and ushered in a new era of courtesy. That is called working across the aisle. Try it yourself if you have time.

She is still an Old Bag, but we just have a new name for it.

In other news Chance went to a new home and he left this afternoon on the first boat for Carnation and Moldy is in an uproar. Or she was, anyway, until the alfalfa came out. Now she is asleep. If you want to be in an uproar, you really have to be awake. So don't eat too much if you are planning an uproar.

Crumpet has not grown at all since she was born and she is now officially the tiniest goat in the world. But in the new era of courtesy we will have to think of something nice to call her instead of The Hamster. Something courteous like VCP.

I suggested The Ruminating Rodent, but that was vetoed, like most of my great ideas.

Quelle surprise.

If Not For You

What happened was it turned to winter all in one day. The leaves fell off the trees and the rain started pouring down. The sun shut off - click! - just like that. This was very depressing.

Then the next day the farmer came out at dinnertime and called the herd weak-mindedly. "BETSY!"

Everybody looked around. Betsy? Is Betsy here?

The farmer looked grim.

Then Lori came over and Lori trundled about in the usual fashion knocking things over and misplacing things and showering everyone with cookies and candy but looking rather gloomy and in the end Lori said to no one in particular, "you know I can get used to a lot of things but I just can't get used to not seeing Penrose."

The farmer turned away.

One of the farmer's friends arrived in the middle of a downpour and looked at Sky Blue and at me, we were standing next to each other in the pasture. "It's funny," she said absently, "they both look just like Hannah Belle."

"Mmm," said the farmer, and changed the subject.

Well what are you going to do. Are you going to clomp around with your head down pretending Betsy never lived here?  Are you going to never mention Penrose again? Penrose? The patron saint of bummers and orphans? Really?

Are you going to frogmarch into the future as if my mother Hannah Belle possibly the finest or at least the second finest Nigerian Dwarf goat to ever walk the earth NEVER EVEN EXISTED????

Well I will tell you one thing, I am not. I am going to keep on living and remembering my absent friends and relatives and I suggest you do the same because what is the other choice anyway and as far as the winter and the rain and the leaves falling off the trees I am only one and a half years old but I can tell you for a certain fact that it happens every year and you better just GET OVER IT!!!

ALL OF EVERYTHING I JUST TOLD YOU AND PLENTY MORE JUST GET OVER IT!!!!

If not for me this whole place would go to rack and ruin. And the same is true of you. Whoever you are. Wherever you live. So get over it, whatever it is you can't get over. Just get over it.

Table For One

Here is what the herd does every morning, my half of the herd anyway.

It sits around waiting for the farmer to come out.

"Where is the food where is the food where is THE FOOD!" Moldy starts wailing as soon as the sun comes up.

Then the farmer finally comes out and the herd mills and grumbles and shoves against the door so the farmer sometimes practically can't even get the door open to let the herd out.

"I need food where is the food I'M STARVING!" wails Moldy.

"That's my FOOT you're standing on MY FOOT!" screams Winjay.

Wronny t-bones Winjay.

"WHERE IS THE FOOD!" screams Moldy.

"MAMA!" screams Chancy.

"MAMA!" screams Moony.

This wakes Pinky up. "What?" mumbles Pinky. "Is it my birthday again?"

The farmer opens the door and the herd pours out into the front pasture like water pouring out of a giant pitcher, a pitcher full of hungry goats, and then the herd runs back and forth among the three different feed stations, each one seeming to have better food than the others until they see it up close and realize that it is just the same, in fact the previous feed station actually had better food, maybe not better tasting but the presentation was better, there was just something about it, so let's go back there away from Winjay instead of staying here, and there is a great swirling of giant terrestrial four-legged locusts as everyone decides where to eat.

Well that is a little ridiculous so I don't do it.

"Please," I say," after you," and I stand aside as the whole herd goes gurgling out into the pasture and then I walk up to the farmer directly and I indicate with my pleasing demeanor that I wouldn't be against a small bowl of cereal if it isn't too much trouble. Just here in the barn aisle is fine, and I don't mind eating out of the bucket, I don't want to make any trouble. Isn't it a lovely day? My goodness, I love the fall colors.

And then when I have finished eating all I want I indicate to the farmer that I don't mind joining the ordinary goats who are still - some of them anyway - running around screaming in the front pasture.

I'm not saying my way is better. But that's just how I do it.

Not Without My Sister

All the goats that went to the fair caught a cold. Including me. That happens every year.

Moony is sick and also disappointed because she found out she was at a Fair and now she wants to go back.

"The food was much better there."

This is true, at the fair we got free alfalfa and free orchard grass. Not the affordable kind either.

Bumbles' little daughter Crumbles caught the Fair Flu and she has a bad case of sniffles and when everyone got turned out yesterday morning she stayed in for special treatment and bed rest. She slept all day.

About halfway through the day the farmer started running all over looking for Creampuff, Crumbles' twin.

The neighbor's calves tore a hole out of the bottom of our fat girl fence and the farmer was worried that Creampuff had wandered out into the meadow and been eaten by a coyote, since the coyotes are in full howling mode now even though the weather here remains mysteriously perfect and August-like without a drop of rain and not even very cold but that is another story. Anyway no one could find Creampuff.

"I am going to give Crumbles a vitamin B shot and then I am going to go down in the meadow," the farmer announced. And do what? I wondered. But I didn't say anything.

The farmer had forgotten that Creampuff is not a Nubian and she can go wherever she wants, it doesn't matter if there is a gate or a fence in the way. She had snuck back into the barn and was cuddled up with Crumbles, sleeping.

"Oh," said the farmer. "there you are."

Now Creampuff has the sniffles too.

Millie's Vacation. Day One.

What happened was Millie got tired of the blog.

This blog is weighing me down. is what she said. everything that happens I am supposed to put something in the blog about it. oh look Wendell threw up. Breaking blog news. goodness there is a flat tire on the tractor. call the blog. Everyone caught a cold from the fair and all the noses are running wild. There is a river of snot. blog gold.

ok so Winjay said I will do the blog if you do not want to do it.

No way said Millie it is not a LaMancha blog.

ok said Wronny I am the herdqueen and someone has to do the blog. If Millie is not going to do the blog then Winjay can do it.

Winjay t-boned Crumpet in celebration.

ok said Wronny to Winjay you are fired from the blog. Millie, you do the blog.

I am tired of the blog said Millie. I need a vacation.

ok said Wronny then pick someone else to do it while you are on vacation and do it now or I will t-bone you.

ok said Millie. I pick Belle Starr.

The Bus Stops Here

Well the goats got back from the Fair and it was an unmitigated display of mediocrity with no blue ribbons at all whatsoever anywhere, in fact two goats came in last, and Moony did not even know she was at a Fair she thought she was waiting for a bus.

"A bus to oblivion," said Maddy drily when the defeated and the bedraggled came tumbling out of the back of the truck.

As far as the LaManchas that was a complete disaster and the recorded grades did not do much better and when it came time for the Nigerians, all Clover and Belle Starr could muster was third place. They were in big classes so it might have seemed good except for the fact that when you are standing in third place there are two goats in front of you and that doesn't usually sit very well especially not with those in the Baby Belle family.

Clover is in the Baby Belle family but she didn't care because all she could think about was the milk she wasn't drinking because it was back at home in Betty's udder.

"Third place, eighth place, fifteenth place, who cares. Where is the milk?"

The farmer's friend tried to take a jolly tone as people always do in the face of an unmitigated disaster and she said brightly, "well, third place is good in a big class like that! I would be pleased with that."

"Yes of course," echoed the farmer. "Very pleased. So many lovely goats."

Then the dairy goat show was over as abruptly as it had begun and everyone scurried around packing and loading and before they knew what was happening all the Fair goats were stuffed back into the truck and off they went headed back home and in unison they breathed a big sigh of relief and lay down on the thick carpet of straw.

But while all the other goats snoozed, Belle Starr stood up and gazed out the back window of the canopy. The truck wheeled slowly out of the fairgrounds, parting the sea of humanity clustered around Pete's Barbecue Pit,  nosing gently around the strolling Peruvian marimba band, passing the Kubota tractor display, turning the corner behind the horse arena out toward the service gate.

"As God is my witness," Belle Starr vowed bitterly, " I will never come in third place again."

They got a little further down the road and Moony accidentally woke up.

"Does anyone know when the bus is coming?" asked Moony. "Because we have been waiting a long time."

The Overfed vs. The Underappreciated

The middling goats will be off to the Fair tomorrow so the farmer has been busy trying to find all the things that should have been collected tidily in one place about a month ago and the fixing of the haircuts began and then sputtered out because the trailer lights stopped working just when needed most  and the latch on the escape door popped and now it is starting to look like everyone is just going to have to cram into the truck instead which is one of many reasons why I never go to the Fair but Pebbles the Jumbo Jet has been looking wistful and recalling her five minutes of Fair Fame and wondering why she hasn't been chosen this year, it doesn't seem - no pun intended - fair.

After all, she is the Bitter Pill. She thinks people will be coming back to the fair just to see her, and a lot of them will want their money back when they realize she isn't there. Which goes to show how strained her relationship with reality has become.

Maddy the Sheriff of Crazytown just came out and told it like it is - "look, Pebbles, it isn't a whale show. When they have a whale show, you will be the first one picked. "

Anyway there was so much going on I thought it would be a good idea to make a hole in the fence and run amuck with some of my underlings so we did that and started a brawl with the milkers and there was a lot of rhetorical questions hurled about by the farmer when the hole was discovered, including, "Do you think this is funny? Do you think I have nothing better to do than fix this fence? Would you look a good walloping?"

And so on while we loaded up on free apples and ate the milkers' hay and enjoyed a refreshing round of goat rugby with The Overfed, making up for what we lacked in blubber with enthusiasm and esprit de corps.

Viva la Revolucion, Baby!

Complaints from the Dust Bowl

The beautiful weather has been dragging on continuously with 48 days without rain. That's fine and everything, I guess the sunshine is ok, but after a while it hurts your eyes. Crumpet's head is about four inches from the ground and it is so dry she is constantly getting dust in her little eyeballs and the farmer's idea of spraying water around the gate to hold the dust down is a real stroke of genius and it helps for about three minutes in the morning. I hope Crumpet doesn't go blind but if she does there will be a Kickstarter campaign to raise money for an eyeball transplant so prepare yourself for that because you will need to chip in if it happens. Anyway it is supposed to rain on Monday and right now we are looking forward to going back to complaining about rain instead of dust.

Also one more note on the beautiful weather I find it monotonous. If I were making up a schedule it would go like this: 2 beautiful days followed by one rainy day followed by a beautiful day followed by a cloudy day with showers at night (when I am in the cabana) followed by a beautiful day but a little bit chilly followed by one of those days where it doesn't really rain but it sort of mists and people say "is it raining? is it starting to rain? did you just feel something?" and there is patchy morning fog all day long. And then repeat. The temperature range would be very flexible, I do not want to seem controlling, anywhere from 55-75 would be fine. The chilly day could go as low as 48.

The haircuts on the middling fair hostages all look terrible. Supposedly that is going to be 'fixed' today. Great, if there is anything worse than a bad haircut it is a fixed haircut. If you ever get a really bad haircut and someone says, "don't worry, I can fix that," just run as fast as you can, especially if they have a pair of Oster A5 clippers in their hand.

Since she has been in with the milkers Winjay has been steadily getting crazier and right now it is a dead heat between Maddy and Winjay as to which one has the most screws loose. There is definitely a metallic rattle when they walk around. Big Orange has pretty much dropped out of the running, there is no way she will be re-elected in November.

The latest on Winjay: all the milkers get special extra fancy delicious grain because they are so important. Everyone else gets a few sprinkles of plain cob or all-stock or something like that. We watch the milkers eating with tears in our eyes.

Anyway Winjay won't eat the delicious grain, she throws it out of the dish onto the floor and stamps until she gets cheap grain.

Crazytown.

Don't Come in Eighth

There was a blue moon and nothing happened.

We thought something might happen but nothing did.

The list of volunteers to go to the Fair and sit around looking middling includes:

Belle Starr (Little Belle)
Betty's Blue Clover (Clover)
Can of Worms (Candy)
Crescent Moon (Moony)
Chocolate Martini (Marti)
Creme de Cassis (Cassis)
Maple Hollow (Rosie)

These goats have all been selected for no other reason than that they are agreeable and friendly. Except Rosie, she is disagreeable and unfriendly, but we need her for groups. Also Cassis is not the friendliest, and she looks a little better than middling. But we are bringing her anyway.

The downside of middling is that you look middling. The upside is there is no pressure. This way they can sit around and relax. Anyway you have to adjust your expectations to reality. It is no use these goats walking around thinking they are fabulous-looking like me when the plain middling not-too-bad truth is right there for everyone to see.

We are not taking any milkers because we need the milk at home. At the Fair you have to throw all your milk away. You would cry if you saw all that beautiful milk going right down the drain.

I feel bad for Candy and Moony though because they will have to show in the LaManchas and the best LaManchas in the country will be there and a lot of them but their only mantra is 'don't come in eighth'  because the premiums stop at seventh place. Also they will be the smallest ones in their class because they were born late. Two strikes. Also they are known to be from a slow-maturing line with fabulous udders, the kind that starts to look good when they are about three. How many strikes is that?

On the plus side they are in the same class so only one of them can come in last.

Join us in rooting for Candy and Moony with this rousing Herron Hill cheer: come in last if you have to, but don't come in eighth!

Fair to Middling

It is time for the Fair and everyone here is looking middling. No one looks spectacular. Who wants to go to the Fair and sit around looking middling. That is a lot of work for nothing. Red ribbons, who needs them.

Pinky and Xie Xie both look good but they are too thin, they milked down too far. So did Abby. Pinky Jr. is a big strapping girl and she looks good, but that's because she doesn't have enough milk. Blue and Betty might be fairly presentable if they bagged up for about a week. Maddy has at least one screw loose and certainly can't go anywhere near the general public. Moldy is too fat. Clover is too fat. Speaking of Clover, Pebbles looks like the Sta-Puf Marshmallow Goat.

Winjay looks fantastic except her udder sticks out the back about four feet, like a second grader drew her. If she were a drawing the title would be: "Earless Goat Walks Bravely Into Hurricane, Udder Sails Out Behind Her."

That's a long title but it's best if people know what they're looking at.

"You are doing that on purpose," the farmer says grimly every time Winjay walks by with her windblown udder.

Marty is going into an awkward phase, Crayola can't go or Crumpet either, they are too precious and would certainly catch something. Fabulous last place Wronny is even older and more stove in than she was the last time she went to the Fair and got last place.

So you would think we might stay home. Wouldn't you?

Hannah Belle 2.0

Yesterday some of the unfortunates got shaved for the Fair. It is surprising what is under there sometimes. Fat little Clover actually looks fairly presentable. Candy and Moony are cute as 2 buttons.

Nobody mentioned anything about it, but everybody thought the same thing when Belle Starr went under the clippers.

My goodness. Isn't it uncanny. She's the spitting image.

The New Pile

Winjay the Hun has been reprimanded for T-BONING Crumpet, who weighs 7.5 pounds.

"That is disgraceful," the farmer hollered, lumbering along to snatch Crumpet up out of harm's way just in the nick of time.

Winjay had to put her head almost to the ground to do it since Crumpet is only about three inches tall. She got a big stripe of pasture dust all over her face since it is dry as a bone here now, you would not believe how dry it is.

"That is a mark of SHAME!" hollered the farmer, pointing at the dust stripe.

"So what," muttered Winjay, flouncing off.

Crumpet gave a little sad mousy squeak and was rushed to the grain bin to drown her sorrows.

Well, anyway that reminds me of how everything had to shift a little bit here since we don't have Penrose any more and there is no way to ever replace her.

When their mothers were busy stuffing themselves with hay, or off foraging for something else, the babies would go and sleep in a pile with Penrose. Especially at bedtime. Many times the farmer would come out and the moon would be high and the frogs would be singing and the mothers would be stuffing themselves with alfalfa and their babies would be in the Penrose pile and Penrose would be chewing her cud and gazing toward infinity, possibly cataloging all the stars in the galaxy.

Now there is a new pile and I was a little surprised who is at the middle of it. It isn't any of the Sopranos, obviously. I thought it might be Xie Xie if push came to shove, but no, she has taken to headflipping stray babies away. I also though maybe Pinky Jr., she is very mild-mannered. But no.

Maybe Moldy or Abby the Crackpot Oregonians, I thought, they seem to like babies. Just then Abby bit little Chance's ear. No blood or anything, but still. Maybe Betty, I thought, and then laughed bitterly. Betty! Ha! That's a good one.

So I gave up guessing and you probably did too but anyway when I was looking over at the big barn last night I saw a pile. Drabby was in it, Chell's plain little daughter, and Crumpet and Crayola, and Blue's girl Cloudy, and Clover, and Champagne was thinking about joining, and there in the center were Creampuff and Crumbles, and they were all clustered around Bumbles.

That's right, Jammies' Little Bumblebee. And there was an air of snoring contentment.

Upstairs Downstairs

Wronny has been raising her two sons Halfway and Gulliver this year and since they are young princes they dine with Wronny everywhere she dines and Wronny dines everywhere since she is the herdqueen and she can eat whatever she wants and it doesn't matter who else wants it.

Wronny eats her grain and hay and then everyone else's hay and grain and the young princes canter along beside her muttering royal statements like "make way, make way, young princes coming through, peasantry please stand back," and so on and they stuff themselves with their silver spoons and by this time they each weigh about a thousand pounds and are as tall as a Shetland pony.  They fancy themselves the Upstairs Goats, and the rest of us are Scullery Maids.

"How kind of you," said Halfway the other day while he gobbled Xie Xie's dinner.

"You may touch my white spot if you like," said Gulliver after hogging all the alfalfa in the feed rack.

In between their ten times a day grain and hay feedings they each guzzle about a gallon of Wronny milk. Their idea of portion control is that they control all the portions.

Everyone else just looks at them bitterly and pretends to like them. "So handsome! So regal!"

"Would you mind just moving just a tad bit out of the way?" they are always asking, then hogging the best spots to lie down.

"Of course not," says everyone else, looking daggers at them.

Well the word came down today that they have been sold and are leaving for their new home very soon and the chorus of fake sadness that welled up would deafen the gods. The insincere expressions of sorrow were many and numerous, with nobody wanting to be outdone.

"Not! Not Gulliver and Halfway! Our two royal ponies! The sadness! The sadness I feel coming on! I'm sure it will hit me as soon as I stop laughing these anguished laughs!"

I did not want to tell them but I had to, it was only fair that they should know that after living their whole lives Upstairs, they will be going Downstairs without their mommy, and they had better start shopping for little frilly scullery caps.

He Made It

Well I don't know why people are always saying they are going to do this that and the other "if the creek don't rise." Because the creek always rises. I don't know why I am thinking about that because we are in the middle of a Northwest drought with no rain predicted until the weekend and temperatures in the mid 90s and right now as far as the creek there isn't any but I guess it is the kind of absence that makes the heart grow fond because I was just thinking about the creek, the way it burbles and so on and how darling that is except when it is burbling up to your neck the way it does most times around here but not now as already mentioned since there is no creek anywhere much less up around your neck. How tiring it is to think these complicated thoughts.

Anyway we have had a lot of visitors this summer way more than usual including visitors from Qatar and Korea and Oregon and Seattle and Burien and Puyallup and Belfair and Oakland, California, not to mention Longbranch right down the road. And some people came to take the cheese class and they came right at the time when we were most worried about Moldy's little son Chance who looked like he might not be long for this world and the people in the cheese class were all very sympathetic and they hoped he would do well and especially one very nice lady and when she was leaving the farmer said, "well, I will let you know how he does," and the lady said no she would be so sad if he didn't make it so best not to let her know anything and the farmer said, well all right then, I will only let you know if he makes it. And she said no, then if you don't let me know anything I will know he didn't make it. And the farmer could see this was all quite sensible and agreed not to tell the lady anything.

But anyway he made it.

Today Chance went out in the front pasture for the first time and he enjoyed it very much. Willen the fat Haflinger came over to look at him and smell his breath and then gave a little stamp of approval and Chance disappeared into the herd like an ordinary baby goat and that was that.

World Famous Betsy

Funny story about Betsy. When she was just a kid, she went to the Puyallup Fair. She misbehaved badly in typical fashion, Betsying around incorrigibly, but she won a blue ribbon.

That year the Tacoma News Tribune had sent a photographer to do a photo essay on the Fair. They probably do this every year, but that year for some reason he was drawn to the goat barn. The farmer saw him several times walking up and down the aisles, among the Alpines, Nubians, Saanens, Oberhaslis, Toggenburgs. Inevitably he was drawn back to the LaManchas.

The farmer chatted with him and he explained what he was doing. "I see," said the farmer.

Up and down the aisle he went, always ending up in front of the stall where Betsy crowded the bars, jumping up to try and catch his shirt, snatching for his camera, investigating his pockets, while Wronny huddled against the far wall, shrewdly avoiding all the lookiloos and stuffing herself with free hay.

The next day Betsy peered out at the world from the front page of the TNT, looking extremely Betsyesque.

The farmer showed Betsy the picture. She didn't care; it wasn't edible. The next year - a year when Betsy did not even go to the Fair - her picture was turned into the TNT blog icon, and she was on the front page of the paper every day the Fair ran.

So Betsy was pretty much the TNT's official goat of the Puyallup Fair.

They could have picked a bigger or a smarter or a flashier goat. But they could never have found a Betsyer goat. Because there isn't one.

East of the Mountains

One of the farmer's friends has a family saying. It is a euphemism. It comes in handy to soften bad news. The saying is: East of the Mountains.

Here it is, used in conversation:

"What happened to that old cat Tiger?"

"Tiger went East of the Mountains."

It means Tiger is dead. Everybody in the family understands. It is a way of saying what you don't want to say. It is a way of telling the truth without telling it.

But what are you going to tell if you don't tell the truth? Nothing, that's what. We had an embargo on bad news because there was just too much of it.

That prevented us from telling an important story. And it wasn't right.

We were waiting for what should have been the last kids of the season. But it became apparent as Betsy went into labor that the kids inside were no longer alive. We don't know why. And when Betsy could not deliver them and the farmer couldn't get them out, the only hope was a c-section to save Betsy's life. It didn't work.

Even on this black day there were grace notes - once again, indispensable help and kindness from friends. And the luck to be in the hands of a good old-fashioned farm vet, who called a halt to surgery when it was apparent what the outcome would be. And then did what more vets should have the courage and kindness to do: he put Betsy down immediately when he saw, after the opening incision, that her uterus was ruptured.

At the start of this year our herd had three titans: Hannah Belle, queen of the Nigerians and Baby Belle's oldest daughter; Betsy, the magnificently goofy head of the part-Nubian Betsy Family; Brandy, Queen Mother of the LaMancha herd.

Now we have Brandy, 13 and tough as nails, as irresistibly ornery an old bird as ever walked the barnyard.

We lost Betsy. We lost her kids. If you want to know who Betsy was and how much we will miss her, just go to the search box and search "Betsy."

It's not a story we wanted to tell. But we can't live East of the Mountains. We have to live here.

What Goes Around: Wendell's Woes

Wendell got hopped up on sticks.

Wendell has a friend named Jack. Jack is a mostly blue heeler with a little bit of border collie. Wendell is a godawful pest as you know. Wendell and Jack have opposing philosophies on sticks.

Jack lives for someone who will throw a stick. Then he runs and gets the stick. AND HE BRINGS IT BACK.

Wendell also loves sticks. He lives for someone who will throw a stick for Jack. Then he runs and gets the stick, ripping it away from Jack if he has to, AND HE RACES OFF TO HIS SECRET STICK STASH AND THE STICK IS NEVER SEEN AGAIN.

The farmer would never consider throwing a stick for either Wendell or Jack. What a waste of energy. But when the farmer's nieces were here, the first thing they did was starting throwing sticks for Jack. Jack was in heaven until Wendell arrived and started stealing all the sticks.

Unbeknownst to anyone, Jack had been getting madder and madder about the sticks for years. And he finally snapped. The two best friends erupted into a big snarling ball that surged across the lawn.

"It will be fine, " said the farmer blandly. "They are hopped up on sticks. Just let them fight it out."

About one second later blood started spurting and Wendell gave a yelp and dropped the stick and ran to the farmer to be coddled as he always does when a trip to the emergency vet is imminent.

The farmer took him inside and wiped away the blood to see where it was coming from and it was coming from one of his eyes. His eye quickly filled up with blood, turning completely red on the inside in a matter of minutes.

Quick trip to the emergency vet, where it was a quiet day except for a lady in an Acura, who brought in a dreamy-eyed Bichon Frise who had eaten a pot brownie. Wendell was diagnosed with bloody eyeball caused by crushing injury and sent home with a pack of medicine. Bad news? No, the eyeball was unpunctured and did not deflate and after a few days it started  - very slowly - to clear.

Flashback one, two, three, four, five years: young Wendell has enjoyed a lifetime of tormenting Laddy the Tennessee Walker by sneaking up behind him and nipping his heels or pulling his tail, then scurrying away laughing. Laddy has never been able to retaliate because of the skillful scurrying.

Fast Forward to the present: Wendell is out in the pasture snacking on horse poo. Our pasture is an Olive Garden of horse poo. Perhaps because of his impaired vision, he makes a critical strategic error, turning his back on Laddy who is only about 15 feet away. Laddy gets a gleam in one of his big eyes, and in one, two, three, four lightning steps, he is on Wendell before Wendell sees what is happening (Wendell's bloody eyeball is squinted almost closed.) He delivers a direct boot to the middle of Wendell's back.

Wendell gives one short yelp and drops to the ground. He allows himself to be carried into the house without even a whimper which makes everyone think he must be very seriously injured. He takes one of his eyeball pain pills. He sits on a cushion. He eats a treat and simpers. Everyone gazes at him expectantly, talking to him and about him in hushed tones. Isn't he a darling dog? Isn't it awful what happened to him? Perhaps the end is near.

It isn't. He's fine. It's a miracle, but he's fine.

Somewhat sobered, obviously, and a tad bit sore, because payback is a _ _ _ _ _. (Rhymes with hitch.)

Good News.

There has been so much bad news this year that it was just decided by the management that there would not be any more until further notice. And if there was bad news it would not be printed or mentioned or referred to until the bad news embargo had passed completely which could take a long time possibly forever since the bad news quota for this year was filled before the end of March.

Okay so the announcement came that the second round of hay was being baled and some of the people who were supposed to help suddenly had other plans and impetigo and hyphema and throbbing bunions and several kinds of palsy and surprise birthday parties and so on and the size of the Hay Team dwindled to a very dismal level but was this bad news? NO.

A team of crack hay specialists from Korea flew in to take the place of the indisposed and the fainthearted and also the farmer's pal from Longbranch pitched in out of the blue and the hay practically marched into the barn. The hay trailer did not get stuck halfway up the driveway - that would never happen - and it did not have to be partly unloaded to get it unstuck, and there was no cussing or yelling, that would be unseemly, and after the Hay Team finished stacking The Hay in the hayloft there was enough left over to make a beautiful Hay Nest for Moldy's little son Chance in the back of old Brownie.

There is always a chance that things could have gone a little bit better, but really I don't see how in this particular case.

Yes, the chariot is a-coming. And no, I don't want it to leave me behind.

TV CFN Penrose Point

That was her name.

You always know there will be days like this. But that doesn't help when they come.

Yesterday the farmer found Penrose lying slumped against the fence behind the barn. She looked like she had just fallen over. Like maybe she had a heart attack.

Last week we were laughing because everyone is growing out their beards but Penrose can't grow hers out even though it is a nice one because every baby here comes and stands under Penrose's chin and chews her beard down to the nubbins so it never gets more than an inch long. Because she won't shoo them away.

She was never sick a day in her life and we don't know what happened. Probably her heart was too big if I had to guess. The last thing she did was give some extra milk for Moldy's little son Chance.

She came here from Walla Walla in the back of an old Ford pickup truck with my grandmother Baby Belle when she was a kid. She looked just like an ordinary run-of-the-mill Toggenburg. But she wasn't.

Penrose was nine years old.