Every year we mark our calendar for the saddest day of the year. It came two days ago. After struggling mightily through several milkless days and exhausting the Christmas Starbucks gift cards, the farmer finally bought a quart of milk at the store.
Cow milk of course. Awful stuff. Just awful. I pity the calf who would even consider drinking it.
That brings us to the kidding countdown: the farmer's special pet Wronny, the world's most perfect milker according to the farmer, even though she has come in last place at every show she has ever been to, unlike my family, which always brings home scads of ribbons, most of them blue, but anyway we can't all be beautiful, will be the first to kid.
The fabulous last place ("I prefer to think of it as fifth place," the farmer insisted this year after the fair, since only four other goats showed up in Wronny's class) Wronny is scheduled to kid on April 3rd. She has never had a buck kid so we are laying odds on that, and even though she has always had twins, I am going to go out on a limb and bet she has triplets.
And speaking of long odds, the farmer has vowed to keep showing Wronny until she doesn't come in last. Then she will retire in a blaze of mediocrity.
So the world will be waiting with bated breath for that wonderful day when Wronny comes in next to last. Personally, I would take the Cubs in four games in the World Series first.
