My Possible Sabbatical

It is being decided right now whether I will go on sabbatical. Last year Breezy took the year off and did not have any kids and now she looks like a beach ball with legs, even though she doesn't get special milker's grain or anything extra-yummy because she is a dry doe.

The farmer thinks I should take a year off because I have had kids every year for the last four years, and last year I had triplets which ended up giving me milk fever since the triplets were a tad on the ravenous side, but that didn't really bother me since the farmer became my nanny and I got to loll about while my kids were drinking from their bottles, and got lots of extra food and treats and pampering.

I have to say, looking at the difference between my kids and Breezy's kids, that I think it would be a mistake to give me the year off, and if I do get the year off, I want to make sure that I do not have to try to squeak by on grass hay and a tiny smattering of cob, because that type of death march ration really doesn't suit my personality or my station in life, what with being Goat of the Year and so on among other honors.

And also not to mention it but excuse me, where are the fair ribbons won by the Breezy family?

Penrose's Daily Affirmation

Death and the Spokesgoat

Some things just will not die, like the farmer's old farm truck. The old farm truck is on DNR (do not resuscitate) status, which means that if it dies it dies and no more than $100 can be spent to save it. Goodbye, God bless you, thank you for your decades of thankless service, vaya can dios.

It is several hundred years old, anyway; I believe Lewis and Clark drove it out here from Missouri or wherever they came from. Anyway, you may remember the old farm truck from last spring's tales of Sammy and the F-150s, who lived inside it when they were babies.

Well last weekend within hours of each other the old farm truck (1978) and the new farm truck (1990) both appeared to expire within hours of each other at the most inconvenient possible time, causing the farmer to transport a large, amorous buckling in full rut inside a Honda which was not a matter to be attempted lightly or at all in my opinion but there you are. What can you do.

The farm truck was left to fester in its own juices down at the side of the highway for several days until the farmer felt like dealing with it. At that point it was towed home by a retired ex-marine from Puyallup and that is another story but not for these pages.

Anyway after a great deal of incompetent mechanicking around it appeared that the truck was suffering from a deceased carburetor, which if you go to autoparts.com you will see starts at around $214, not including installation, so funeral arrangements were commenced for the F-150. But not so fast.

Within minutes of the supposed demise of the F-150, a friend of a friend had managed a hookup resulting in a used (but perfect shape!) carburetor for $40.

So the death of the farm truck has yet to be finalized although I myself am not the type of goat who puts a lot of faith in pre-owned carburetors. On the other hand, the F-150 has had a rod knocking since 1998, so its will to live is not inconsiderable.

Anyway, we'll see. In other news, Penrose has been declared the farm's spokesgoat - "for now" - which I don't think is fair. It is only because she is so good at looking into the camera, which can hardly be considered a skill, if you ask me.

Under Every Tree

The Woods are full of them.

After our wettish summer the mushroom hunters are out in force. You see them everywhere, walking with their heads down and their beady little eyes scanning the ground, blind to everything but the fungi.

Most of them are looking for chanterelles, probably because they don't know any better.

But the farmer has been raking in Zeller's Boletus, an undersung mushroom and close cousin to the boletus edulis, the mushroom of a thousand names, including the cep, the cepe, the steinpilz, the Karl Johan, the varganya, the borovik, the penny bun. If you are a foodie, you probably know it by its plural Italian name: porcini.

Around here it is called the king boletus, and not for nothing, because it is pretty much the king of mushrooms. We don't find many king boletus, even in a year like this, because we are at too low of an elevation, but the humble Zeller's - homely as they come with its purple neck, its spongy underside, its dingy cap - is hiding in plain sight just about everywhere.

The farmer doesn't even bother with the flashy overpraised chanterelles any more, they take up too much space in the basket and they aren't as good, in spite of what some of the mushroom book writers have written about lowly Zeller's - "edible but not incredible", etc.

Ha. Keep your fancy chanterelles.

Toggamanchas

Lucy and Leo on the porch, back when they were babies. Lucy and Leo were tiny toggamanchas (now they are big) and they were holy terrors. They went everywhere together, living life in duplicate.

Male Trouble

As far as I can tell the human animal does not think it is an animal. But if it would just accept this fact and use some of its common sense to understand the lessons of the animal world then a lot of its troubles could be remedied.

For example, today Wrusty Nails, Peaches' son who is ordinarily about as charming as a buck can be, went crazy. He went absolutely loco. In his state of non compos mentis, he decided that he could fit his entire large body through a 4 by 4 inch hole. That is the size of the openings in the fencing wire in his pen.

I didn't even mention his head, which is about the size of a basketball.

Anyway, Wrusty was completely berserk.

Why?

I think you know why.

Girls.

Wrusty wanted to go over and talk to some pretty goat girls, or even one of the frumpy ones, about his opinions on the carbon footprint and so on, and he wanted to do it really badly, and he wanted to do it right away, and since he can't jump six feet (unlike my daughter Hannah Belle) he decided that he would just go through the fence.

And here is the really crazy part: he did it.

By sheer boneheadedness and determination he pushed his head into the hole in the fence, and then he kept pushing, and then finally like the Popeye of goats, he burst all the way through, snapping the heavy gauge wire like it was a spider web. The farmer came out just as Wrusty was completing the final mile of his arduous journey, and Wrusty was quickly escorted to the horse trailer for the duration of the ensuing fence repairs, while the goat girls who were in heat lined up along the fence calling to him.

"Wrusty, where are you going? What about the carbon footprint?"

And that is the essence of the male trouble we have around here this time of year. The goat girls go into heat, and it lasts maybe a day or two, and during that time the goat girls are willing to discuss the carbon footprint when at all other times of the year they would run screaming - literally screaming - if Wrusty Nails or any of his shaggy odiferous ilk ever came blubbering around.

But the goat boys, the bucks, go into a state of unbelievably monomaniacal insanity that lasts 24 hours a day and 7 days a week until the last of the goat girls has come out the other side of her heat wave. They stand ever vigilant, ready at a moment's notice, thinking of nothing nothing nothing else. They don't care about pain or about hunger or about rain or cold or wind. They are crazy, and they do absolutely crazy things without a second thought. Without a first thought, really.

But on the other side of the coin, the goat girls can only afford to go crazy for a couple of days at most.

Because no society can function when all the girls are crazy. Nothing would get done. No milk, no functioning hierarchy, no one to raise the kids.

So the girls go crazy in installments, and in between times they come to their senses and keep everything running smoothly. Many times I have asked myself, looking at the father of my children, "what was I thinking?" It's okay, though, because it doesn't last.

But the boys go crazy, and they don't come back.

And they must be monitored very carefully, or else they will invade Austria at the drop of a hat.

You May Find Yourself In Another Part of the World

Boo got out yesterday. Nobody knows how, especially not Boo.

The farmer came out and Boo was standing in the garden, looking dazed and confused. The look on her face was pure Talking Heads, circa 1984.

"How Did I Get Here?"

She was so puzzled she hadn't even bothered to destroy any valuable plants, or eat any forbidden fruit. She was standing smack next to the dwarf apple tree, and hadn't eaten so much as a leaf.

Within a few short minutes she was able to identify the farmer as someone she remembered seeing somewhere, possibly in a previous lifetime rather than eight zillion times a day every day of her life, and gratefully trundled over to be taken back to the barn.

Sad.

TNT Betsy: Puyallup Poster Child

Today is the last day of the Western Washington State Fair, aka The Puyallup. We were just there last week but so much has happened since we got back that it seems like years ago. Unfortunately, much of what has happened is either bad or very bad, but usually that means that something good is just around the corner.

Anyway that is what we are hoping.

But back to the Puyallup: even though little orphan Betsy did not even go to the Puyallup this year, she has been on the front page of the Tacoma News Tribune every day of the fair. They used the photo they took of her last year to make an icon for their fair blog.

The farmer showed her the picture but she had no comment.

TreeGoat

Betty, picking apples.

Boxcar Betty

When Betty was born, she was the last of triplets. Her two brothers, Peanut and Zilla, had a bad time getting into the world. One was too little, and got stuck coming breech; the other was too big, with a leg back and a giant noggin. After those two troublemakers, Betty just tumbled out, like a little pair of dice, and the farmer thought "Boxcars!" at the sight of all those dalmatian spots.

So her name is Boxcar Betty.

Here she is, standing out in the crowd with her crapshooting colors and her Carolina Blue eyes.

Back from the Fair

Well, the farmer just got back from the fair, and I could have told you what would happen.

Only three goats went, because the farmer didn't feel that good and some of the goats also looked like they might be getting sniffles.

So the three contenders were Xtra Joy, Lucy Goosy (aka Dory), and my granddaughter Boxcar Betty. The farmer thought Xtra Joy would do well, because she is supposedly so pretty and everything despite not having any ears. If you like a goat with no ears, I guess she looks okay.

And the farmer thought Lucy might do well, because Lucy is Penrose's daughter and she has a lot of dairy character, whatever that is supposed to mean, despite being kind of a brown nose. She is one of those goats always hanging around the farmer practically saying "Pet me, Pet me," which I find undignified.

When I go around the farmer, I like to convey that I wouldn't mind having a little grain since I am getting so emaciated, and after that it would be all right if the farmer wanted to scratch my chest, and please don't forget the animal crackers next time you go to the store.

I think this establishes a more collegial atmosphere.

Anyway, the farmer did not think Boxcar Betty would do that well, because there were going to be a lot of Nigerians at the Fair. And Betty of course was very cute and adorable but maybe not that much of a show goat.

And of course Betty was a big hit at the Fair, with all kinds of people trying to buy her and asking questions about her and wanting to know what kind of goat she was and when she was born and so on.

And the show started and Lucy went first, and despite not feeling that well and having a bad haircut and refusing to walk in a straight line, she came in second place and got a ribbon, which was good even though it was a small class.

And then Joy went. And oh my goodness, the farmer's eyes boggled when all the goats went into the show ring. It looked like a national show or something, as the judge even remarked, with so many beautiful Lamanchas there. And anyway, Joy did not do very well, partly because the farmer did not do a good job of showing her and partly because there were so many exquisite doelings there. Joy was ninth, which doesn't sound that good, until you look at the girls in tenth, eleventh, twelfth place and down the line and see how pretty they are.

Then the Nigerian show started, and when the farmer brought Betty out, the farmer's eyes boggled again. Betty's Nigerian class was just as big as Joy's class, and with just as many beautiful animals. This was the class for the youngest Nigerian kids, and there was kind of a rodeo going on outside the ring waiting to go in, and lots of bawling and crow-hopping, with many of the Nigerian kids screaming, "this is not in my contract, and I would like to see an attorney before proceeding further, and by the way, I hate you."

Betty did not do this. Betty stood calmly and quietly, not causing any trouble. The ring steward motioned her to go into the ring first, and when she walked in she had the air of the world's tiniest princess. And the judge very quickly put her at the head of the class in front of all the others.

So Betty, my granddaughter little Boxcar Betty, was the only one to win a blue ribbon.

Duh.

All Quiet

Well it has been pretty dull here the last few days since Clipper and the two most beautiful mini-Manchas (Buttons and Cappy) in the world went to their new home together.

Breezy has taken over bossing everyone in the fat girl pasture, but I have to say everyone down there looks kind of dazed. Clipper's style of drill sergeant management kept them on their toes, and now they are pretty much flat-footed. Breezy just doesn't crack the whip with the same lion-tamer gusto. I hate to admit it, but I think everyone misses Little Colonel Clipper.

Now the last dregs of summer are trickling away, but they say we will have beautiful weather this week, so I for one am going to get out and do some power-lounging in the sun.

The News From Home

Well my grandson Peanut went to his new home and I am not surprised to learn that he has already taken up pen and ink to begin his literary career. You can read Peanut's first musings here. He is living with a goat philosopher named Marigold and a sleuthing fainting goat named Watson, so hopefully he won't get too smart for his own good. There is a full-blown Nubian there, though, so that should bring the I.Q. level back down toward the mean.

Meanwhile, Peanut's mother Hannah Belle (aka Lecter) has returned to her willful ways and is now spending part of every day inside the horse trailer. According to the farmer, she is "thinking about what she did" in there, but as far as I can tell she is catching up on her naps and enjoying some very pleasant alone time.

Because thinking is not something she does in order to make herself a better goat. Thinking is something she does in order to figure out new ways to get into the grain room. So far she has thought up about seven hundred ways to do that. Her little anarchist daughter Boxcar Betty has taken to following her around on some of her excursions, too.

Wendell the boston terrier pest had been lying around in a sleep coma recovering from the departure of his friend Max until today. Today he unfortunately started feeling better and chased Boxcar Betty all around the pasture until he got a good yelling-at from the farmer.

On another matter, Winnie came back into the big milker pasture acting all high and mighty. That lasted about 15 seconds until she got taken down several pegs by an unlikely gang-up consortium of Boo the Ocean Liner Nubian, Scouty the Winnebago Nubian, and little modest yearling milker Ronny, who is actually Winnie's sister. Together they showed Winnie who was not boss.

Then the three of them shook hands, gave each other courtesy head bumps, and went back about their business - hogging as much food as possible.

Oh Look, a Dandelion!

Well my grandson the little black-eyed Peanut has gone to his new home out in the Sequim Banana Belt, and the farmer is moping around.

Peanut's mother, on the other hand, did not notice that he is gone. I am not an expert but I think this may ruin her chances for the Mother-of-the-Year Award. After all you cannot very well stand at the podium accepting your crystal vase and say, "and I would like to thank my wonderful children, I had two or maybe three of them this year, and they are all just wonderful kids, etc etc, however many of them there were."

Even so she is better than some of the Nubians. One of our Nubians, Stacy, had triplets one year and she was terribly attached to them but when two of them went to a new home she simply shook her head a couple of times to adjust to the new reality. You could see a little glimmer of an idea scrolling across her forehead: "didn't I use to have a couple more of these darling little things? No, no, I guess not...oh, look, a dandelion!"

Hannah Belle's Old Leaf

Well, my daughter Hannah Belle as you may know used to be quite a troublemaker. In fact, she was certainly the top troublemaker at the farm for quite a while, and was voted Most Likely to Give the Farmer a Stroke with her incorrigible escape artistry. But Hannah Belle turned over a new leaf when her triplets were born in June.

Feeding and cleaning and nudging and coddling them, that's all she did. One, Goatzilla, is such a mama's boy as a result that he practically bursts into tears if he can't see her. If you left the gate open to her stall, she wouldn't leave, that's how bad it was for a while. Personally I thought it was a little smarmy. Luckily the baby, Peanut, was raised on the bottle so he is strong-minded and independent.

Well, one day last week Hannah Belle shook the cobwebs from her head and got the old sparkle back in her eye.

After three months in the milker stall without even so much as an attempted escape, she looked up and said to herself, hey, wait a minute, this wall is only five feet high!

Over she went in a blink and off to ransack the barn looking for grain, leaving cosseted little Zilla bawling in distress.

Then out to the pasture to scarf up the fallen apples. Then on to the porch to investigate a bucket that looked suspiciously capable of containing cob.

And before you know it, she was apprehended and frogmarched to the horse trailer for a punishment timeout, her first in over a year. I heard the angry yelling echoing eerily off the trailer's metal walls - it went on for hours - and my heart swelled with pride.

THAT'S MY GIRL!

Vive la Reine!

Return of the Queen

Well isn't it funny.

I don't know if you remember but Brandy was always our leader. She was the herdqueen and everyone agreed she was the herdqueen, so there was no Balkanization of the herd. The herd all agreed that Brandy was the queen.

Sure, some would mutter that they would be a better queen, and if they were the queen they would do things a lot differently, and there would be more cake, and earmarks for the queen's special friends, and bread and circuses and no new taxes.

And some would say why do we always have a LaMancha queen, why shouldn't we have a Nigerian queen or possibly a miniature queen.

And some of the long-eared-bears-of-little-brain even suggested a Nubian queen, since after all the Nubians are the biggest and the loudest. But this was widely considered laughable. Even some of the Nubians themselves would laugh when they said it. At least I think they were laughing. Who knows.

Anyway, ok, I got a little off track, but Brandy was always our leader. In spite of being small, and often terribly skinny because she was such a tremendous milker, Brandy was the queen, and ruled by consensus. She was firm but fair, and she was an excellent goat trainer because she was unfailingly consistent.

Brandy would always explain that she was going to eat first and she would insist upon it and she brooked no disagreement. And if you thought you were going to get in line ahead of Brandy - which for the most part you didn't think - you knew the price you were going to pay. Expert t-boning in the ribs, followed by ear-biting (if you had ears) and an ignominous bum's rush out the door. You did not get away with queue-jumping. Ever.

But if you were polite and waited your turn, you need fear nothing from Brandy. And if you stayed out of her way, she had no quarrel with you.

This was completely the opposite of, say, Boo. In Boo's ill-fated attempt at politics, she would one day insist that she was going to eat first and fight to the death over it. The next day she would run screaming to the end of the line after a sideways look from someone else.

Brandy had an unfortunate occurrence in the spring: she lost a set of beautiful triplets and was kept in isolation for several weeks because she was under the weather, and while she was out of circulation turmoil raged in the ensuing power vacuum and finally, unbelievably, Clipper emerged as the sort-of leader, ruling completely by terror.

Clipper turned into Attila the mini-Togg. You might be dozing in the sun and chewing your cud and out of the blue she would steamroller you into the dust for no apparent reason. She went mad with power. Anyone who looked at her cross-eyed might be t-boned against a locust tree. She was a pillager through and through.

And since she was always punishing everyone randomly, there emerged an idea that you could get away with things, small crimes and misdemeanors, if only you kept one eye on her. You could quietly sneak snacks out of turn from the feeder, for example, while she was burning and sacking a village of nearby innocents. This contributed to the chaos.

Well Clipper didn't have kids this year and she was eventually moved out to the pasture of fat girls and dry yearlings, where her iron-fisted regime of seething anarchy continues. Meanwhile, up at the main barn, Brandy endured her demotion with serene dignity, never scrabbling for anything or kowtowing to anybody. Just waiting patiently.

Slowly she fattened and regained her strength, and one day a couple of weeks ago she got a certain look in her eye when Scouty came clipclopping to the door to be fed first.

And that look said, "I don't think so."

And Brandy explained to Scouty that she was going to eat first and she insisted on it. And she brooked no disagreement.

And within a couple of days the fog of amnesia lifted and everyone remembered, oh yeah, that's right, you ARE the boss of me.

And Brandy returned to her rightful throne.

And I say, after surviving the Clipperish Inquisition, Long Live the Queen.

Getting The Picture

When we took this picture we thought we knew what we were doing. This isn't always the case. But sometimes, a lot of the time, actually, you are doing something you don't know you are doing. And that isn't always a bad thing.

Anyway, this picture - we thought - was a picture of Sammy, one of our favorite bottle babies of the year. Sammy went to a very nice new home and we hear that he is doing well. The farmer was very glad when he was born, because his mother is one of the best and prettiest does and she hadn't been able to have kids for three years and the farmer was worried. So Sammy was a welcome addition, just for that reason, but on top of that he had a funny personality and was a very endearing character (obviously not as endearing as my triplets, but you have to start somewhere.)

And we thought this was a nice picture of little Sammy when we took it, and we were glad to have a nice picture of him.

But the farmer was just looking through the photos of this year's kids and stopped in surprise at this picture. In the background is our cat Julius, an orange tabby.

Julius disappeared this spring and we don't know what happened to him. But we don't think he is coming back, since he has been gone for several months now. If you look very closely, you will see him. This is the last picture we have of Julius.

Julius first belonged to the farmer's sister, but he stayed here when the farmer's sister moved to the East Coast. Julius was a very good cat, and he was also very good at being a farm cat. He was friendly and sweet and never lost his good nature even when he was having problems with runny eyes and ears, which he had his whole life and no vet could ever do anything for. Julius was well traveled and confident, a real cat's cat, and he would stray and stroll much further than our other cat, Harry, who pretty much stays right around the barn.

For a while Julius had a habit of waiting at the end of the driveway for the farmer or Lori to come home. Lori always worried that he would get run over, but he was much too smart for that. Julius also made friends around the neighborhood, and for a couple of months one time, his attendance at the farm was very spotty, and the farmer was surprised to discover that he had a side family next door - where the food must have been better - and was spending a lot of time there. But pretty soon he came back.

Anyway, we haven't seen Julius in a long time, and we hope maybe he moved somewhere with someone who thought he was their cat. That could have happened. And that would be fine.

But we do want them to know, if they are reading this, that Julius was our cat. And we will be waiting if he comes home.

The Farmer's Amazing Car

The farmer's car is a little black vw station wagon.

Lately the farmer has been driving all over. Down to Longbranch to feed and ride the horses every day because they are at summer camp while their pasture is reseeded. Up to Gig Harbor to fetch paint and supplies for the barn remodeling.

Over to Jerry's feed store in Vaughn to get grain, grain, grain for the piggish milkers.

Anyway, all the time we would see the farmer putting things in the car and never taking them out, saying things like, "I might need that."

So I knew there were a lot of things in the car but I was surprised when the farmer's friend had to drive separately from the farmer instead of riding in the station wagon - because there was only room for one person.

But anyway today the farmer took most of the things out of the station wagon - not all, don't be silly - and even I was surprised to see what was in there. It was like watching the clown car at the circus.

This is not a complete list, just a small sampling.

1. A red metal tack box that says "Elvis" - no one knows why - and contains electric sheep shears, clipper blades, clipper oil, clipper grease, fitting accoutrements for show sheep (which we don't have any of thank Goodness. If there is anything dumber than a Nubian, it is a sheep. Bless their hearts, I say).

2. A cordura breastcollar and other tack for a cheap western saddle.

3. A Buena Vista style leather saddle for a Tennessee Walker.

4. A pair of posthole diggers.

5. A can of rustoleum paint.

6. A border collie.

7. Assorted lumber, including pieces of cedar siding and a 3-foot length of treated 6x8.

8. Several bits, including a copper mouth snaffle, a Tom Thumb, and a Kimberwick. A lunging whip, a horse tack box (not the Elvis box) full of combs, brushes, hoofpicks, neatsfoot oil, fly spray, wormer.

9. A bag of green apples.

10. A cheap cordura western saddle.

11. A boston terrier.

12. Assorted paperwork needed to complete an extension-to-file 2007 income tax return.

13. A clay birdhouse.

14. A saddle pad. A plaid wool blanket. A rug. A heavy winter Carhartt jacket. A frisbee. Several dog leashes. A phone book.

15. An extra-large rubbermaid tub full of Tammy's Special Mix. (horse grain.)

16. An old iron double tree (for two horses to pull farm equipment).

17. Assorted reading material including books, newspapers, maps, magazines and flyers.

18. Sixteen charcoal gray Holland paving bricks.

"This will never happen again," the farmer said soberly, examining each item with dismay. Then the farmer got ready to go down to Longbranch.

"Well, I will definitely need these," the farmer said, and put the cheap western saddle and the horse tack box back in the station wagon.

"And probably these," and the bits went back in.

"And I wouldn't go anywhere without this," and in went the border collie, very pleased at the roomy new accommodations.

Brats Next Door

Well the farmer got mad today but not mad enough. We were lolling in the front pasture when two little fat kids (human) from next door came up to the fence.

I thought they might have some licorice or cookies since they were fat kids so I went right up to the fence. Hannah Belle had the same idea and she came right up behind me. Peanut and Betty and Zilla came up behind Hannah Belle, and then Boo the ocean liner came pushing her way to the front, while Joy and Lucy actually stood up on the fence trying to reach into the kids' pockets.

Meanwhile those little fat boys were saying, "Baa, baa, baa," which on the scale of witty remarks is right around zero, in my opinion, but I stayed long enough to make sure they didn't have any ginger snaps.

Then I left. "Come on, Hannah Belle, " I said. And Hannah Belle and Peanut and Zilla and Betty left too. And Ruby and Annabel left. And Joy and Lucy left. And Eo left, and Aggie and Vel. And Scouty. And finally even Boo turned her wide load around and left.

Well, what happened then? The little princes picked up rocks and started throwing them at us.

One of them HIT me! I bawled. And then Boo bawled - she is a pretty hard target to miss, and then everybody started running.

Well, I saw one of the little teletubbies with his arm cocked back and just then I heard the loudest booming voice of all time.


CUT IT OUT!!!!!!!!!!

It was the farmer, madder than a hornet, and the two little rock-throwers were frozen solid with fear. They were stone cold busted, two of them standing there with rocks in their hands.

The farmer gave them a good yelling at, and asked a series of rhetorical questions - sometimes these are the best kind, I think.

Did they know that they could put somebody's eye out?

Would THEY like it if someone threw rocks at them?

What if they had hit that little baby goat (meaning Peanut)?

Didn't they have anything else to do?

Why did they do it?

Well they really liked the goats and they were playing (meaning they said "baa baa baa" over and over) with them (meaning us) and then the goats (meaning us) left and they wanted them to come back.

Good grief. I don't know how it happened but one of the little brats is going to come over tomorrow to give Peanut his bottle. And they both say they won't ever throw rocks at us any more.

Yeah right. Where is that pellet gun when you need it?