The farmer heard on tv that yesterday was the most depressing day of the year. That turned out to be true.
Around 8 in the morning Poppy's yearling daughter Monday started hollering.
She stood at the gate and hollered at the farmer, which is odd in itself because she is naturally standoffish.
"She must be in heat," the farmer said to The Terror. The Terror doesn't know anything about heat, so she just yapped in solidarity.
The farmer doddered around feeding everyone and then went to make a mark in the new breeding calendar and just for once scanned backwards in time and saw that Monday really shouldn't be in heat.
Because she is already bred. And due at the end of February.
The farmer went outside and Monday was lying under the apple tree crying in an unmistakable way, you will know it when you hear it if you have ever heard it before, and she was shivering a little bit and when the farmer got close she turned and looked longingly at the farmer.
It was a look of pure love so deep that the farmer knew right away it was a case of mistaken identity, and that Monday was going to lose her kids if she hadn't already, but that she was still in the hopeful stage and thought the farmer lumbering toward her might be, possibly could be, there was a one in a million chance, all it ever takes is one in a million, her baby.
"All right, then," sighed the farmer, and crouched down, and Monday allowed herself to be carried up to the barn where within an hour she delivered a tiny hairless bobbleheaded baby. It wasn't anywhere near finished, just an outline for a baby, a cave drawing, eyes sealed shut, looking like a prehistoric broken baby bird.
The farmer took the baby away, and then came back and settled Monday in the horse trailer in a little private stall, since the barn is not set up for kidding yet, and sat with her reading a book.
"This is the most depressing day of the year," the farmer explained. "Don't worry, tomorrow will be better."
Monday stared blankly at the farmer, crying softly. What else could she do.
