Well the Super Bowl smackdown finally came on the schedule and Zinnia the Ninnia aka the Beady-Eyed Sourpuss was turned out in the milker pasture with Wronny. She went out there with her two kids, A.J. and Edie, who are inexplicably sweet and adorable although I guess it is not that inexplicable since Chaos is their father.
Okay, first of all, confidence: what is it? Is it stealing lunches from little kids? Is it t-boning the slow-witted? Is it sneaking up behind an intelligent, kindly, extremely correct (except for the chandelier udder) Nigerian and biting its ear while it is trying to take a nap? That's right, Zinnia, I am talking to you. The answer to all these questions, especially the last one, is no.
Confidence comes from deep within the rumen of the true herdqueen. Confidence is its own reward. Confidence is like a little bird that flies NORTH for the winter. WHY NOT TRY SOMETHING NEW? Confidence babbles happily like an Alpine brook; it knows its way down the mountain. Confidence is the peace that passes understanding, like a bucket of warm Cherry trance-milk. Ommmm. Confidence lies sleeping in the sun, because there is no need to get up.
Getting up is exactly what Wronny did not do when Zinnia swaggered into the milker pasture radiating what she thought was confidence. Oh Wronny saw her, but really, some things really do not merit one's personal attention. Wronny flicked an eye over at two of her underling lieutenants, Elbie and Schwinnie, and they took off like a shot - yes, My Queen! - in Zinnia's direction.
Zinnia quivered out one last swagger and then realized too late that her confidence was really arrogance. Her brain shut down in a flood of panic. She wheeled and ran. And ran.
And ran, with the portly Hounds of Hell warm - Hot burns too many calories - on her heels.
Wronny yawned and went back to sleep. Ommm.
Losers please send licorice (black.)
c/o Millie
Herron Hill Dairy
Home Wa 98349.
Thanks.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
The Staring Circle
It has been a beautiful August here, no rain except a few sprinkles and not too hot, only in the 80s or so and sometimes in the 70s. The farmer got out the clippers and has systematically been shaving the fair candidates to see what is in there under all that hair. Blue Jaye was shaved and she looked beautiful but she isn't making much milk. Clara Belle also looked beautiful. Clover did too.
Marti was shaved and sometimes she looks pretty good, sometimes she has the topline of a brontosaurus. She just keeps rising like a loaf of bread dough and she can't always be punched down. One day the rear is too high, the next day the front, the third day she looks good.
Sandy was shaved and she looked surprisingly good except for her head, which looks like a miniature donkey's head, with a wattle on each side only one wattle is under her ear where it is supposed to be and the other kind of dangles lopsidedly along her neck which isn't a good look. Also they aren't the same size, one is a grape and one is more of a ping pong ball. When everyone saw what Sandy looked like under her hair we cleared a small circle around her for staring and now she travels around with her own little buffer zone, the staring circle, which no one ventures into.
"Oh dear," said Abby, when she saw her daughter Sandy in her hairless glory. Pebbles did not get shaved because she did not settle so she won't be going to the fair. Pebbles is the pretty twin. Sandy is the unsung twin, and there was quite a chorus of unsinging when she came out of the cutting salon in the barn.
"Is she adopted?" asked Crumpet. Crumpet is one of Sandy's little sisters.
Derringer, one of Clover's daughters, also got a haircut. "Hmm," said the farmer, when Derringer came prancing out.
This does not bode well for Derringer. Usually when the farmer says "Hmm," the farmer then says, "I don't expect her to come in last." And sure enough, a few minutes later the farmer remarked to The Terror as Derringer went pronging back to the Pear Tree Pasture, "I don't expect her to come in last."
The Terror was busy eating hoof clippings and didn't say anything.
For Derringer, sadly, this probably means a lifetime of goat shows, unless she has the good sense to grow her udder out in the shape of a chandelier, which is what I did, and I have never been anywhere near a ferris wheel and I wouldn't know an elephant's ear from a corn dog.
Anyway the farmer allowed that we might get a couple of ribbons at the fair.
"Especially since we have a secret weapon this year," the farmer explained to The Terror.
The Terror was asleep by now, and didn't say, "Secret Weapon? What Secret Weapon?"
Marti was shaved and sometimes she looks pretty good, sometimes she has the topline of a brontosaurus. She just keeps rising like a loaf of bread dough and she can't always be punched down. One day the rear is too high, the next day the front, the third day she looks good.
Sandy was shaved and she looked surprisingly good except for her head, which looks like a miniature donkey's head, with a wattle on each side only one wattle is under her ear where it is supposed to be and the other kind of dangles lopsidedly along her neck which isn't a good look. Also they aren't the same size, one is a grape and one is more of a ping pong ball. When everyone saw what Sandy looked like under her hair we cleared a small circle around her for staring and now she travels around with her own little buffer zone, the staring circle, which no one ventures into.
"Oh dear," said Abby, when she saw her daughter Sandy in her hairless glory. Pebbles did not get shaved because she did not settle so she won't be going to the fair. Pebbles is the pretty twin. Sandy is the unsung twin, and there was quite a chorus of unsinging when she came out of the cutting salon in the barn.
"Is she adopted?" asked Crumpet. Crumpet is one of Sandy's little sisters.
Derringer, one of Clover's daughters, also got a haircut. "Hmm," said the farmer, when Derringer came prancing out.
This does not bode well for Derringer. Usually when the farmer says "Hmm," the farmer then says, "I don't expect her to come in last." And sure enough, a few minutes later the farmer remarked to The Terror as Derringer went pronging back to the Pear Tree Pasture, "I don't expect her to come in last."
The Terror was busy eating hoof clippings and didn't say anything.
For Derringer, sadly, this probably means a lifetime of goat shows, unless she has the good sense to grow her udder out in the shape of a chandelier, which is what I did, and I have never been anywhere near a ferris wheel and I wouldn't know an elephant's ear from a corn dog.
Anyway the farmer allowed that we might get a couple of ribbons at the fair.
"Especially since we have a secret weapon this year," the farmer explained to The Terror.
The Terror was asleep by now, and didn't say, "Secret Weapon? What Secret Weapon?"
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
We Are The World
A funny thing happened and that was we almost forgot about Moldy coming from Oregon. In fact the other day Crumpet scoffed when someone told her Moldy was from Oregon. Moldy is Crumpet's grandmother.
"Moldy was here the day I was born. She has been here her whole life."
I guess Crumpet thinks the world sprang into existence on the day she arrived. The whole planet was made specially for her, even the alfalfa and the leaves on the trees, and before she was born it was just all stuffed into a closet somewhere or the trunk of someone's car, no need for it. But when she was born Snap, same day delivery, get The World out of the trunk, Crumpet is here. And don't forget Moldy.
Which just goes to show how delusional she is when we all know that the world would have started when Baby Belle was born years ago, back when there was no Oregon, only Walla Walla and the Key Peninsula.
That is what Izzy was explaining to Crayola when she got t-boned into the side of Winnie's shed by one of the LaMancha yearlings, one of the fat ill-mannered ones, oh wait they are all fat and ill-mannered. Anyway the LaManchas insisted that the world started in Port Orchard, just north of here, because that's where Brandy was born.
I guess there is some truth to that, so we will include that in our history book if we ever write it, that when the world started there was only Walla Walla, the Key Peninsula, and Port Orchard. That seemed settled until little Marti, the great-granddaughter of our old scatterbrained Stacy said "what about the Nubians?"
Because it's true, the Nubians were here, scatterbrained Stacy and beautiful kind Marti, when the world began, so we really ought best to include them in the history book, at least in the foreword if there isn't room for them in any of the more interesting chapters, so that is what we will do.
"But where did the Nubians come from?' asked Crumpet, and this was a puzzler that stumped even the Nubian crosses themselves and there was a long silence until someone said, "Mars I think."
That sounded right so we took a note of it.
Walla Walla, The Key Peninsula, Port Orchard, Mars. Thus it is written.
Wednesday, August 07, 2013
The Main Event
Clover was able to t-bone the Terror as it was doing some fancy scurrying around the apple tree. It scurried right into her, looking behind at Clara Belle and practically t-boning itself, although Clover took the credit. Of course the Terror gave a yelp and the farmer came running to pick it up. So that is good, we scored one point, our first. It did not go to the grain bin afterward, which is odd. I hope this doesn't mean there is a new policy banning grain gorging as the treatment of choice for those with hurt feelings.
Crumpet has flopped out as a show goat and as a milk goat and her piano playing lacks artistry to say the least, so the farmer is going to make her the new ambassador goat and she will have to go around to Harvest Tours and things like that wearing a little backpack stuffed with tootsie rolls which Filbert used to do as the official Candy Goat before he got well and truly sick of it. Sad news for Crumpet. Oh well, somebody has to do it.
Zinnia whose name is really Zenyatta had the two surprise kids, Chaos kids, and she is very pleased because now she has a private stall in the barn and she gets special food. She is one of the Brandy style parents, always hovering and taking umbrage at real and imagined threats to her darling drab tots. She tried to t-bone the Terror but the Clover incident had already taught it to use its side mirrors and it dodged spryly out of the way, laughing.
The two new babies have their father's personality, which is nice for everyone since Zinnia is a beady-eyed sourpuss who thinks she owns the whole peninsula.
The appearance of the Zinnia twins means that there is an epic smackdown on the horizon: in a couple of weeks Zinnia will go out with the milkers and she and Wronny will come head to head and I don't know who will win but I do know I want a ringside seat. It will be a real Category 5 Goatnado.
Just my opinion, but it will be a cold day in Honolulu when the Sourpuss takes the Soprano.
Crumpet has flopped out as a show goat and as a milk goat and her piano playing lacks artistry to say the least, so the farmer is going to make her the new ambassador goat and she will have to go around to Harvest Tours and things like that wearing a little backpack stuffed with tootsie rolls which Filbert used to do as the official Candy Goat before he got well and truly sick of it. Sad news for Crumpet. Oh well, somebody has to do it.
Zinnia whose name is really Zenyatta had the two surprise kids, Chaos kids, and she is very pleased because now she has a private stall in the barn and she gets special food. She is one of the Brandy style parents, always hovering and taking umbrage at real and imagined threats to her darling drab tots. She tried to t-bone the Terror but the Clover incident had already taught it to use its side mirrors and it dodged spryly out of the way, laughing.
The two new babies have their father's personality, which is nice for everyone since Zinnia is a beady-eyed sourpuss who thinks she owns the whole peninsula.
The appearance of the Zinnia twins means that there is an epic smackdown on the horizon: in a couple of weeks Zinnia will go out with the milkers and she and Wronny will come head to head and I don't know who will win but I do know I want a ringside seat. It will be a real Category 5 Goatnado.
Just my opinion, but it will be a cold day in Honolulu when the Sourpuss takes the Soprano.
Sunday, August 04, 2013
Two Tiny Boats Against the Current
The Terror inspects Eau-de-vie, Brandy's great-great-granddaughter, and appears to find her satisfactory. We have learned that the Terror is supposed to be called "Sammy."
 |
| Sammy and Edie. |
The Water of Life
Plan B we decided was to wait and see as far as the Boston Terror goes. We can wait. Just try to wait us out some time and see who wins. We can wait.
Because time will tell. Time always tells.
Time told us that Pebbles wasn't going to kid because she was due a week ago and she hadn't done anything and since she was the last one on the kidding chart the farmer rolled up all the baby towels and took them inside until next year.
And time told us that Brandy would not be with us much longer which we knew anyway since she was several hundred years old but still one of the farmer's favorites, who knows why. Yesterday she was just so tired so she had a lot of special treats and several apples, which she loves, sliced thin and fed by hand and her spirits were good and she wasn't in pain but she wouldn't get up.
"Will you get up, Brandy?" the farmer asked. But she wouldn't get up.
Today was the day. In the morning she ate a few apple slices, and had a shot of vitamins and a shot of banamine in case she was in pain. The farmer sat with her and petted her along the neck, which she usually doesn't allow. Brandy drank a quart of warm water with electrolytes, which made the farmer think she would rally.
"She is a tough old bird," the farmer said to the Boston Terror. The Boston Terror goes everywhere with the farmer.
The farmer got up to go do some more chores and Brandy woke with a start and called after the farmer and the farmer turned around and looked back at Brandy for a long minute. One of those looks between two old friends where only they know what it means.
Then the farmer turned away and went up to look for the paint rollers. And when the farmer came back she was gone.
That ought to be the end of the story. But it isn't. It never is.
The farmer went and started digging a grave for Brandy and the ground was so hard and dry - we have hardly had a drop of rain since June - that the farmer soon had to stop. The farmer dragged the hose over and ran some water into the ground to try to soften it and then started digging again and then hit a shelf of hard clay and had to stop again and this went on for a while and then in spite of always hating to cause people any trouble the farmer left a message for the kindly neighbors with the backhoe and before long they arrived and lickety split they had the nicest grave dug and that may sound like cold comfort but there is something to be said for a really nice grave, especially for a herdqueen like Brandy.
Well just as Brandy was being laid to rest with an apple and a handful of dandelions there was a distant peeping cry from across the other side of the pasture. The farmer ignored the cry, and thanked the neighbors profusely because after all what is nicer than someone helping you dig a grave on a moment's notice. Nothing, really.
The neighbors left and the farmer fed the Terror and the girls behind the barn and then there was the peeping again so the farmer did a head count and came up one short and so the farmer pushed open the gate and hustled toward the cabana looking for Pebbles but the cabana was empty and Pebbles was lying indolently in the shade at the top of the hill, still fat but still not pregnant. On the way back out the farmer passed Winnie's little shed and happened to look inside and there was Zinnia, wearing a guilty expression, along with a pair of newborn twins, a boy and a girl, still wet.
"How did you get here?" the farmer asked, nonplussed. They didn't answer.
Their names are going to be Applejack and Eau-de-vie. Those are two kinds of brandy. And if you ever had seventh grade French you know that eau-de-vie means "water of life." The water that always keeps flowing.
When we look at them we will think of Brandy. And the backhoe. And the kindly neighbors. And the water of life. And the way time always tells.
7 Cedars Yogi's Brandy 4/18/2000 - 8/3/2013
Herron Hill CB Eau-de-Vie 8/3/2013 - .............
Because time will tell. Time always tells.
Time told us that Pebbles wasn't going to kid because she was due a week ago and she hadn't done anything and since she was the last one on the kidding chart the farmer rolled up all the baby towels and took them inside until next year.
And time told us that Brandy would not be with us much longer which we knew anyway since she was several hundred years old but still one of the farmer's favorites, who knows why. Yesterday she was just so tired so she had a lot of special treats and several apples, which she loves, sliced thin and fed by hand and her spirits were good and she wasn't in pain but she wouldn't get up.
"Will you get up, Brandy?" the farmer asked. But she wouldn't get up.
Today was the day. In the morning she ate a few apple slices, and had a shot of vitamins and a shot of banamine in case she was in pain. The farmer sat with her and petted her along the neck, which she usually doesn't allow. Brandy drank a quart of warm water with electrolytes, which made the farmer think she would rally.
"She is a tough old bird," the farmer said to the Boston Terror. The Boston Terror goes everywhere with the farmer.
The farmer got up to go do some more chores and Brandy woke with a start and called after the farmer and the farmer turned around and looked back at Brandy for a long minute. One of those looks between two old friends where only they know what it means.
Then the farmer turned away and went up to look for the paint rollers. And when the farmer came back she was gone.
That ought to be the end of the story. But it isn't. It never is.
The farmer went and started digging a grave for Brandy and the ground was so hard and dry - we have hardly had a drop of rain since June - that the farmer soon had to stop. The farmer dragged the hose over and ran some water into the ground to try to soften it and then started digging again and then hit a shelf of hard clay and had to stop again and this went on for a while and then in spite of always hating to cause people any trouble the farmer left a message for the kindly neighbors with the backhoe and before long they arrived and lickety split they had the nicest grave dug and that may sound like cold comfort but there is something to be said for a really nice grave, especially for a herdqueen like Brandy.
Well just as Brandy was being laid to rest with an apple and a handful of dandelions there was a distant peeping cry from across the other side of the pasture. The farmer ignored the cry, and thanked the neighbors profusely because after all what is nicer than someone helping you dig a grave on a moment's notice. Nothing, really.
The neighbors left and the farmer fed the Terror and the girls behind the barn and then there was the peeping again so the farmer did a head count and came up one short and so the farmer pushed open the gate and hustled toward the cabana looking for Pebbles but the cabana was empty and Pebbles was lying indolently in the shade at the top of the hill, still fat but still not pregnant. On the way back out the farmer passed Winnie's little shed and happened to look inside and there was Zinnia, wearing a guilty expression, along with a pair of newborn twins, a boy and a girl, still wet.
"How did you get here?" the farmer asked, nonplussed. They didn't answer.
Their names are going to be Applejack and Eau-de-vie. Those are two kinds of brandy. And if you ever had seventh grade French you know that eau-de-vie means "water of life." The water that always keeps flowing.
When we look at them we will think of Brandy. And the backhoe. And the kindly neighbors. And the water of life. And the way time always tells.
7 Cedars Yogi's Brandy 4/18/2000 - 8/3/2013
Herron Hill CB Eau-de-Vie 8/3/2013 - .............
Friday, August 02, 2013
Plan A
It was decided by the power that be (Eo) that Crumpet would approach the Boston Terror and explain to it our rules for dog behavior and the consequences that might result from any rule-breakings.
"Why me?" asked Crumpet.
"Why not?" said Eo, and this proved to be a stumper. Crumpet went up toward the barn to explain the rules.
1. No chasing.
2. No barking.
3. No unsolicited opinions or offers of fake "assistance." This includes "helping" anyone to finish their dinner.
We watched with interest as Crumpet sallied forth, radiating confidence and bureaucracy despite her hamsterly size. She had gotten almost to the barn when the Terror came bounding toward her in an unnervingly friendly manner, barking gaily. Nonetheless we expected Crumpet to deliver our ultimatums and bylaws in a professional fashion but instead she turned tail and ran in abject terror, with a 4-inch tall Boston Terror nipping delightedly at her pasterns.
"The Most Famous Goat in the World," Jammies mentioned mournfully as Crumpet pronged toward the cabana.
"All right," said Eo, "let's go to Plan B."
"Why me?" asked Crumpet.
"Why not?" said Eo, and this proved to be a stumper. Crumpet went up toward the barn to explain the rules.
1. No chasing.
2. No barking.
3. No unsolicited opinions or offers of fake "assistance." This includes "helping" anyone to finish their dinner.
We watched with interest as Crumpet sallied forth, radiating confidence and bureaucracy despite her hamsterly size. She had gotten almost to the barn when the Terror came bounding toward her in an unnervingly friendly manner, barking gaily. Nonetheless we expected Crumpet to deliver our ultimatums and bylaws in a professional fashion but instead she turned tail and ran in abject terror, with a 4-inch tall Boston Terror nipping delightedly at her pasterns.
"The Most Famous Goat in the World," Jammies mentioned mournfully as Crumpet pronged toward the cabana.
"All right," said Eo, "let's go to Plan B."
Friday, July 26, 2013
The Boston Terror and The Idiots
There was a hushed discussion with no one able to agree.
"This boston terror is very little. Only about 4 inches tall," said the down-below Nubian crosses, led by Cherry. "We think it will not be a problem."
"Idiots," said Eo.
"Four inches is a lot," said Crumpet. "Two inches would be better."
"Can we shrink it?" asked Jammies. "Is there a way to shrink it?"
"I have heard that things can be shrunk through selective breeding," Betty chimed in.
"Let's breed it to Chaos," suggested Belle Starr. "I have noticed he is not very particular."
"That is not what selective means," Betty opined.
"Idiots," snapped Eo.
"It's fine right now where the farmer mostly carries it around," mused Elbie, "but what is going to happen when the farmer puts it down?"
"On the ground, you mean?" asked Pinky and Moony together.
"Idiots," said Eo.
"This boston terror is very little. Only about 4 inches tall," said the down-below Nubian crosses, led by Cherry. "We think it will not be a problem.""Idiots," said Eo.
"Four inches is a lot," said Crumpet. "Two inches would be better."
"Can we shrink it?" asked Jammies. "Is there a way to shrink it?"
"I have heard that things can be shrunk through selective breeding," Betty chimed in.
"Let's breed it to Chaos," suggested Belle Starr. "I have noticed he is not very particular."
"That is not what selective means," Betty opined.
"Idiots," snapped Eo.
"It's fine right now where the farmer mostly carries it around," mused Elbie, "but what is going to happen when the farmer puts it down?"
"On the ground, you mean?" asked Pinky and Moony together.
"Idiots," said Eo.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
The Royal Baby
Eo was the first to see it because she is always on the lookout for bad news. When she saw it she did a little gymnastics maneuver, swinging her butt around so that she could face it directly head on without looking any bigger than necessary and positioned to flee for the hills at the earliest possible moment.
"What is it Eo?" asked Moony, lumbering over looking like a tiny moon-spotted whale encased in blubber since she is a long yearling and her mother still lets her nurse even though she has to practically lie on the ground to reach the udder since she is so tall not to mention wide.
Eo said nothing just stared up toward the farmhouse with gimlet eyes where it was just barely visible, just the top of its head peeking up above the grass.
"It couldn't be," gasped Belle Pepper, swinging her tail around behind her. Blue came up and swung her tail. I swung my tail. Champagne swung her tail. Cherry swung her tail. Belle Starr swung her tail. Jammies swung her tail. Jinxy swung her tail. Pinky swung her tail. We all stood there staring.
"It couldn't be," said Belle Pepper again.
"What is it Eo?" asked Moony again.
"It's bad news," snapped Eo.
"What is it?" Moony asked everyone at large.
"It's another one," said Belle Pepper, somberly.
"Another what?" asked Moony.
Betty finally said it out loud. "Another boston terror."
"What is it Eo?" asked Moony, lumbering over looking like a tiny moon-spotted whale encased in blubber since she is a long yearling and her mother still lets her nurse even though she has to practically lie on the ground to reach the udder since she is so tall not to mention wide.
Eo said nothing just stared up toward the farmhouse with gimlet eyes where it was just barely visible, just the top of its head peeking up above the grass.
"It couldn't be," gasped Belle Pepper, swinging her tail around behind her. Blue came up and swung her tail. I swung my tail. Champagne swung her tail. Cherry swung her tail. Belle Starr swung her tail. Jammies swung her tail. Jinxy swung her tail. Pinky swung her tail. We all stood there staring.
"It couldn't be," said Belle Pepper again.
"What is it Eo?" asked Moony again.
"It's bad news," snapped Eo.
"What is it?" Moony asked everyone at large."It's another one," said Belle Pepper, somberly.
"Another what?" asked Moony.
Betty finally said it out loud. "Another boston terror."
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
The End of the Line
There was a show. There was too much to do the farmer did not want to go to the show. Blue Jaye looked beautiful, she had spent two weeks learning how to go around in a circle without pancaking or swordfish walking, then all of a sudden she got lopsided and her production dropped like a stone and the farmer said forget it, just forget it, I am not taking Sandy the screamer and Morchella is too fresh and Clara Belle really has milked off a little too much weight and Crayola is still limping from hurting her foot and it would take four hours to clip Marti and Clover won't bag up so forget it just forget it let's just forget about it what is the point anyway it is a little ridiculous walking around in a circle with a goat on a hot day when the fence is falling down and the gates have yet to be hung and it costs a lot of gas money to get to the show not to mention the entry fees so let's just forget it.
Then the farmer looked out into the pasture where Crumpet was browsing away pretending to be a horse and even though Crumpet was extremely tiny she had grown two inches in the last two months and she was almost the size of a regular six-month old Nigerian, which would be good if she weren't a yearling, and the farmer looked at Crumpet and in spite of her extreme tininess Crumpet was perfect in every way and Crumpet knew it very well.
"I could just take Crumpet," the farmer muttered, perhaps having suffered a mild stroke or some other brain malady of unknown origin. "I could just put Crumpet in a crate and just take Crumpet."
"But Crumpet is too small to show," said the vestigial smidgen of the farmer's brain that was still functioning correctly. "And what about those gates? When are they going to be hung?"
The farmer from Minter Bay had also apparently suffered a mild stroke and agreed - reluctantly - to go as well. Into the truck and off they went at zero dark thirty, so early that most of the scintillating conversation en route was about the pleasantness of the traffic. "Look, there is hardly any traffic," one of the farmers would say.
"Isn't this nice," the other would say.
"What about that parade in Seattle?" one would say.
"I hope we don't get caught in that traffic," the other would say.
"Look," the first would exclaim, "there is hardly any traffic."
The people in Seattle may ride their bicycles naked but they are not so crazy that they get up at 4:30 and drive two hours to a goat show.
At the fairgrounds all the Nigerians were screaming in protest. But not Crumpet. She sat in her crate chewing her cud shrewdly and surveying the motley crew of reluctant pageant participants and you could see her thinking aloud, "these fat girls are no match for me."
The day dragged on interminably with the usual goat show delays. As usual the Minter Bay goats did very well, both of them making it to the championship lineup. By the time Crumpet went into the ring it was mid-afternoon. There were a bunch of other dry yearlings, probably twelve or thirteen, and several - if not most - of them were quite fat. Some were beautiful and fat, some were just fat. One was already at the height limit. She was a good six inches taller than Crumpet.
This is not one of those stories where Crumpet triumphs over the fat yearlings. The first judge started arranging the lineup. He glanced briefly at Crumpet and put her near the end of the line. Another judge did not even look at her, not a single glance, before putting her right at the end of the line. The third judge took his time and patiently looked each goat over thoroughly. He put Crumpet at the end of the line.
But as he went down the line giving his reasons, he stopped when he got to the end.
"This little doe at the end of the line is extremely correct," he said. "in fact there is nothing wrong with her. She is perfect. She is just too small to be competitive."
"That's right," thought Crumpet, surveying the fat losers ahead of her in line with pity and compassion as one should when regarding those less fortunate. "Perfect in every way."
This gentleman has a firm grasp of the obvious, thought the farmer. Unlike me.
Then the farmer looked out into the pasture where Crumpet was browsing away pretending to be a horse and even though Crumpet was extremely tiny she had grown two inches in the last two months and she was almost the size of a regular six-month old Nigerian, which would be good if she weren't a yearling, and the farmer looked at Crumpet and in spite of her extreme tininess Crumpet was perfect in every way and Crumpet knew it very well.
"I could just take Crumpet," the farmer muttered, perhaps having suffered a mild stroke or some other brain malady of unknown origin. "I could just put Crumpet in a crate and just take Crumpet."
"But Crumpet is too small to show," said the vestigial smidgen of the farmer's brain that was still functioning correctly. "And what about those gates? When are they going to be hung?"
The farmer from Minter Bay had also apparently suffered a mild stroke and agreed - reluctantly - to go as well. Into the truck and off they went at zero dark thirty, so early that most of the scintillating conversation en route was about the pleasantness of the traffic. "Look, there is hardly any traffic," one of the farmers would say.
"Isn't this nice," the other would say.
"What about that parade in Seattle?" one would say.
"I hope we don't get caught in that traffic," the other would say.
"Look," the first would exclaim, "there is hardly any traffic."
The people in Seattle may ride their bicycles naked but they are not so crazy that they get up at 4:30 and drive two hours to a goat show.
At the fairgrounds all the Nigerians were screaming in protest. But not Crumpet. She sat in her crate chewing her cud shrewdly and surveying the motley crew of reluctant pageant participants and you could see her thinking aloud, "these fat girls are no match for me."
The day dragged on interminably with the usual goat show delays. As usual the Minter Bay goats did very well, both of them making it to the championship lineup. By the time Crumpet went into the ring it was mid-afternoon. There were a bunch of other dry yearlings, probably twelve or thirteen, and several - if not most - of them were quite fat. Some were beautiful and fat, some were just fat. One was already at the height limit. She was a good six inches taller than Crumpet.This is not one of those stories where Crumpet triumphs over the fat yearlings. The first judge started arranging the lineup. He glanced briefly at Crumpet and put her near the end of the line. Another judge did not even look at her, not a single glance, before putting her right at the end of the line. The third judge took his time and patiently looked each goat over thoroughly. He put Crumpet at the end of the line.
But as he went down the line giving his reasons, he stopped when he got to the end.
"This little doe at the end of the line is extremely correct," he said. "in fact there is nothing wrong with her. She is perfect. She is just too small to be competitive."
"That's right," thought Crumpet, surveying the fat losers ahead of her in line with pity and compassion as one should when regarding those less fortunate. "Perfect in every way."
This gentleman has a firm grasp of the obvious, thought the farmer. Unlike me.
Monday, July 01, 2013
Sunday, June 30, 2013
The Best Bad Dog in the World
There is a big silence all around the farm.
It is hard to believe, like so many terrible true things. But Wendell, aka Mr. Jingles, died on Thursday. In spite of being a monumental pest he was one of the farmer's very best friends, always in staunch agreement with the farmer's opinions and dying to hear more of them. Had there ever been such fascinating opinions, so eloquently expressed, so novel, so enlightening, so right in so many ways? Had there ever been such a magnificent farmer, driver of such a magnificent farm truck, the magic carpet ride to hayfields and feed stores and drive-through windows where the little dog sandwiches come out in crinkly paper for the shotgun rider? That Crinkly Paper! Had there ever been a better life than he had, king of his domain, fearless cow herder, matchless baby goat nanny, incorrigible thief, the best bad dog in the world?
Tuesday, June 04, 2013
The Betty Way
Betty is the Nigerian herdqueen now. She does things The Betty Way.
The Betty Way is right on time, no funny business, no whining or complaining.
Betty got ready to kid on Sunday. She waited down in the pasture until it was time, then she signaled to the farmer. The farmer came down and opened the gate and she marched up to the barn.
She went into the kidding stall. She looked at it skeptically. It was ok, but it could have been better. The hay feeder was only half full of alfalfa, and the straw was clean and fresh but only a couple of inches deep. What could she do, she had to work with what she had.
She rearranged the straw, making a little mattress off to one side. She did a couple of circles, mapping out her kidding route. Ok.
The farmer went on feeding and Lori sat in the stall reading a book. Betty did a few trips around the stall, then laid down to push. Out popped the first triplet, without a peep from Betty.
"The first one is out," said Lori.
What is she doing here, thought Betty.
Betty examined the first kid closely. Fine, perfect in every way. Out popped the second triplet, unfortunately Betty had to give one short sharp bark to help push this one out. You could see that Betty didn't like doing that, but what can you do, sometimes it happens. Betty examined the second one while the first one drank some milk. Fine, perfect in every way. Out popped the third triplet. Exquisite.
Betty called for some dinner and a quart of mixed berry Emergen-C in a bucket. The whole family went to sleep, serene and adorable, never a peep from any of them.
The next day Tangy set in to kidding. The farmer dropped everything. First Tangy tried to kid standing up - this is a family trait. Then she tried to kid with her knees down on the ground and her butt up in the air. Alexander Newton I'm sure must have been spinning in his grave, but try explaining gravity to Tangy when she doesn't even know how to open the latch on a stall door. Dios mio. The bellowing I'm sure you could have heard in Gig Harbor, which is 15 miles away.
After a long time she managed to get a nice straightforward set of nose and toes lined up but the kid would not come out for all the world. This went on for half an hour and the farmer even gave her some calcium and some medicine to help dilate. Finally out popped a perfectly normal kid, streamlined like a mahogany cigarette boat from the '50s, what was the problem, the farmer asked? Why couldn't she just push him out? Why all the drama?
Tangy gave a little burp and yawned and popped out another kid. Well, the second one always comes out nicely. Ok, good job, said the farmer and went to do some chores. Three hours later, from down in the front pasture, the farmer heard the unmistakable bellowing of Tangy laboring mightily and the farmer trotted wheezing up to the barn to find a sopping wet third kid splayed out in the straw, who even knew how long Tangy had been working at that one.
"Well," said the farmer. Because what else can you say. "next time try doing it The Betty Way."
The Betty Way is right on time, no funny business, no whining or complaining.
Betty got ready to kid on Sunday. She waited down in the pasture until it was time, then she signaled to the farmer. The farmer came down and opened the gate and she marched up to the barn.
She went into the kidding stall. She looked at it skeptically. It was ok, but it could have been better. The hay feeder was only half full of alfalfa, and the straw was clean and fresh but only a couple of inches deep. What could she do, she had to work with what she had.
She rearranged the straw, making a little mattress off to one side. She did a couple of circles, mapping out her kidding route. Ok.
The farmer went on feeding and Lori sat in the stall reading a book. Betty did a few trips around the stall, then laid down to push. Out popped the first triplet, without a peep from Betty.
"The first one is out," said Lori.
What is she doing here, thought Betty.
Betty examined the first kid closely. Fine, perfect in every way. Out popped the second triplet, unfortunately Betty had to give one short sharp bark to help push this one out. You could see that Betty didn't like doing that, but what can you do, sometimes it happens. Betty examined the second one while the first one drank some milk. Fine, perfect in every way. Out popped the third triplet. Exquisite.
Betty called for some dinner and a quart of mixed berry Emergen-C in a bucket. The whole family went to sleep, serene and adorable, never a peep from any of them.
The next day Tangy set in to kidding. The farmer dropped everything. First Tangy tried to kid standing up - this is a family trait. Then she tried to kid with her knees down on the ground and her butt up in the air. Alexander Newton I'm sure must have been spinning in his grave, but try explaining gravity to Tangy when she doesn't even know how to open the latch on a stall door. Dios mio. The bellowing I'm sure you could have heard in Gig Harbor, which is 15 miles away.
After a long time she managed to get a nice straightforward set of nose and toes lined up but the kid would not come out for all the world. This went on for half an hour and the farmer even gave her some calcium and some medicine to help dilate. Finally out popped a perfectly normal kid, streamlined like a mahogany cigarette boat from the '50s, what was the problem, the farmer asked? Why couldn't she just push him out? Why all the drama?
Tangy gave a little burp and yawned and popped out another kid. Well, the second one always comes out nicely. Ok, good job, said the farmer and went to do some chores. Three hours later, from down in the front pasture, the farmer heard the unmistakable bellowing of Tangy laboring mightily and the farmer trotted wheezing up to the barn to find a sopping wet third kid splayed out in the straw, who even knew how long Tangy had been working at that one.
"Well," said the farmer. Because what else can you say. "next time try doing it The Betty Way."
Thursday, May 30, 2013
They Might be Tiny Giants
Clara Belle the farmer's pet yearling kept getting bigger and bigger. She was supposed to kid but she held off. The barometer dropped and there was a downpour but she held off, getting bigger and bigger. Crumpet meanwhile spent every day spying through her peephole and when the new babies would be let out to play she would squirt through the fence and gallop to the barn and t-bone each and every one of them in rapid succession, Muhammad Ali style, float like a butterfly sting like a bee.
The farmer was losing patience.
Crumpet did her t-boning practice for 3 days with complete success, dominating all the week-old babies. Once she had fully dominated she would give three little sideways hops signifying her badness. That's right -- hop, hop, hop -- I'm bad. The farmer caught her and stuffed her back through the fence a few times when she got too full of herself but in general she ran rampant.
On the fourth day she decided to go Big. She surveyed the pasture and picked out Moony, who may be big - she is the biggest yearling here, and possibly in the world, since she still drinks a gallon of Pinky milk every day - but she is also slow, uncoordinated, and not an intellectual giant.
Crumpet did her first big league t-boning when Pinky and Moony both got their heads stuck in the fence. They had put their heads through the same hole at the same time and couldn't get out. They didn't notice it at first, they thought they were just waiting for everyone to get off the bus and then they could go where they wanted to go, but when everyone else left and they still couldn't move and the farmer said, "well, you figured out a way to get your heads in there, I think you can figure out a way to get out," they started moaning softly, like they were in a sad church or something.
It was very spiritual.
Crumpet got a gleam in her eye and she started t-boning Moony to such an extent that even though it was a fly attacking an elephant, the farmer had to come down and get Moony and Pinky out of the fence and the farmer attempted at that time to catch Crumpet because Crumpet had been promised a long-overdue thrashing but Crumpet dodged away.
Tiny Tyrant 1, Moony 0.
"All right," said the farmer to Clara Belle, "you go ahead and have your kids whenever you want just do not have them in the middle of the night. It is not allowed."
Later that day, at midnight actually, Clara Belle laid down and started screaming.
The farmer came trotting with the kidding towels.
"Ok," said the farmer, rubbing the first one, a big starry-eyed buckling.
"Why it's called Midnight," the farmer explained to Clara Belle as she pushed out another buckling, also big and starry-eyed, "is that it comes in the middle of the night."
Clara gulped down a quart of grape-flavored Emergen-C in a bucket.
"And that isn't allowed, as I explained earlier."
The bucklings looked exactly like their father, Lucky the Drive-Through Buck, right down to the last detail, swanky and blue-eyed with lush black-and-white coats, like they were on their way to hear Frank Sinatra crooning somewhere. They were tiny, but they were giants.
Crumpet surveyed them with satisfaction through her spyhole. Two more worthy opponents.
They might be giants, thought Crumpet, but they are no match for me.
The farmer was losing patience.
Crumpet did her t-boning practice for 3 days with complete success, dominating all the week-old babies. Once she had fully dominated she would give three little sideways hops signifying her badness. That's right -- hop, hop, hop -- I'm bad. The farmer caught her and stuffed her back through the fence a few times when she got too full of herself but in general she ran rampant.
On the fourth day she decided to go Big. She surveyed the pasture and picked out Moony, who may be big - she is the biggest yearling here, and possibly in the world, since she still drinks a gallon of Pinky milk every day - but she is also slow, uncoordinated, and not an intellectual giant.
Crumpet did her first big league t-boning when Pinky and Moony both got their heads stuck in the fence. They had put their heads through the same hole at the same time and couldn't get out. They didn't notice it at first, they thought they were just waiting for everyone to get off the bus and then they could go where they wanted to go, but when everyone else left and they still couldn't move and the farmer said, "well, you figured out a way to get your heads in there, I think you can figure out a way to get out," they started moaning softly, like they were in a sad church or something.
It was very spiritual.
Crumpet got a gleam in her eye and she started t-boning Moony to such an extent that even though it was a fly attacking an elephant, the farmer had to come down and get Moony and Pinky out of the fence and the farmer attempted at that time to catch Crumpet because Crumpet had been promised a long-overdue thrashing but Crumpet dodged away.
Tiny Tyrant 1, Moony 0.
"All right," said the farmer to Clara Belle, "you go ahead and have your kids whenever you want just do not have them in the middle of the night. It is not allowed."
Later that day, at midnight actually, Clara Belle laid down and started screaming.
The farmer came trotting with the kidding towels.
"Ok," said the farmer, rubbing the first one, a big starry-eyed buckling.
"Why it's called Midnight," the farmer explained to Clara Belle as she pushed out another buckling, also big and starry-eyed, "is that it comes in the middle of the night."
Clara gulped down a quart of grape-flavored Emergen-C in a bucket.
"And that isn't allowed, as I explained earlier."
The bucklings looked exactly like their father, Lucky the Drive-Through Buck, right down to the last detail, swanky and blue-eyed with lush black-and-white coats, like they were on their way to hear Frank Sinatra crooning somewhere. They were tiny, but they were giants.
Crumpet surveyed them with satisfaction through her spyhole. Two more worthy opponents.
They might be giants, thought Crumpet, but they are no match for me.
Monday, May 27, 2013
The Book of Names
We have a goat named Pinky. And we have a goat named Pinky Jr. And just to show the breadth of imagination at work here, we also have a goat named Binky. None of these names are their real names. They all have real names on their papers but nobody knows what they are any more. Once the farmer was at a show and the announcer came on the loudspeaker in the barn and announced the reserve champion, Moonshine Yarrow, and the farmer wondered who that was, because the farmer thought that one of our goats had been the reserve champion and we even had the ribbon to prove it, but oh dear maybe someone was on the way to confiscate the rosette. And then someone passing by said congratulations and the farmer realized that Moonshine Yarrow was actually Tangy.
"Oh, that's right."
But anyway we have a Pinky and a Pinky Jr. and a Binky. Blue Jaye's two little daughters are getting bird names since she has a bird name and one is called Diamond Dove and the other is called Dollarbird. Dollarbird is a wisecracker, it's plain to see already, she is always chewing on a little piece of straw in the corner of her mouth and everyone calls her Dinky Dollarbird, which sounds like an outlaw name, which she definitely is, and she is also very small, she is this year's Crumpet, which last year's Crumpet doesn't like at all. Dinky Dollarbird could easily be a cartoon character, she has blue eyes and wattles growing right under her ears.
But of course after you say Dinky Dollarbird five times you start to feel a little less syllabic and pretty soon it's just Dinky, which someone suggested as a name in the D contest.
Clover's little daughters are Derringer (she is a pistol) and the other one might be Polka Dot, she is all black with a white dot on her head and another on the tip of her tail. She is extremely sweet, not a pistol at all.
Sandy's little son is just called Sandy's little son, he has four caramel-colored boots and big Hello-Kitty Oregonian eyes. Jessie's little son would also be called Sandy's little son, but that name is taken. So he is called Jessie's little son, even though he is exceedingly fat.
Maybe later on one of them could get an official name, something like Finky. Or Ginky. Or possibly Rinky or Kinky. Minky would also work. Or Tinky. We might save Sinky for later, and Winky is too good to use right away. Pinky the Third has not been used as far as I know.
The ideas just keep coming. It's amazing.
"Oh, that's right."
But anyway we have a Pinky and a Pinky Jr. and a Binky. Blue Jaye's two little daughters are getting bird names since she has a bird name and one is called Diamond Dove and the other is called Dollarbird. Dollarbird is a wisecracker, it's plain to see already, she is always chewing on a little piece of straw in the corner of her mouth and everyone calls her Dinky Dollarbird, which sounds like an outlaw name, which she definitely is, and she is also very small, she is this year's Crumpet, which last year's Crumpet doesn't like at all. Dinky Dollarbird could easily be a cartoon character, she has blue eyes and wattles growing right under her ears.
But of course after you say Dinky Dollarbird five times you start to feel a little less syllabic and pretty soon it's just Dinky, which someone suggested as a name in the D contest.
Clover's little daughters are Derringer (she is a pistol) and the other one might be Polka Dot, she is all black with a white dot on her head and another on the tip of her tail. She is extremely sweet, not a pistol at all.
Sandy's little son is just called Sandy's little son, he has four caramel-colored boots and big Hello-Kitty Oregonian eyes. Jessie's little son would also be called Sandy's little son, but that name is taken. So he is called Jessie's little son, even though he is exceedingly fat.
Maybe later on one of them could get an official name, something like Finky. Or Ginky. Or possibly Rinky or Kinky. Minky would also work. Or Tinky. We might save Sinky for later, and Winky is too good to use right away. Pinky the Third has not been used as far as I know.
The ideas just keep coming. It's amazing.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Not Today
Brandy has gotten really old and now that she is a teenager she has a habit of nodding off in the pasture and when she does she usually does a face plant into the grass so that when you look at her you think, swing low sweet chariot. Here comes the band of LaMancha angels you think, and if you had a hat on you would take it off and hold it over your heart.
But anyway she is 13 and she is just sleeping, and she is also deaf as a post so when the farmer yells, "BRANDY!" she continues sleeping until the farmer trots up and grabs her shoulder and then she startles awake and plucks her head up, and her face is usually plastered with blades of grass, and it takes a few seconds for her eyes to swim back into focus, really it makes you wonder what she has been dreaming, and then she shakes her head in annoyance and the day goes on.
Then there is Spenny and she is 16 and she is the same, she sleeps 23 hours a day and if anything she is deafer than Brandy. Out of the blue we hear the farmer roaring: "SPENNY!" And then the day goes on. Then we see the rudely awoken Spenny on her constitutional, circling the house arthritically, five times like clockwork, after all she may be old but she is still a border collie, before going on to another power nap.
Tommy aka Tomba aka Tomba-la-Bamba the horse is 26 but he doesn't go in for all-day sleeping, it isn't his cup of tea, and he isn't deaf either. He is just thin when he used to always be fat but otherwise you wouldn't know he is a dinosaur.
Anyway a day doesn't go by that we don't hear "BRANDY!"
Or "SPENNY!"
And then we hear a little snort. And then we hear the farmer again, in a normal voice: "Not today."
Some other day, maybe. But not today.
But anyway she is 13 and she is just sleeping, and she is also deaf as a post so when the farmer yells, "BRANDY!" she continues sleeping until the farmer trots up and grabs her shoulder and then she startles awake and plucks her head up, and her face is usually plastered with blades of grass, and it takes a few seconds for her eyes to swim back into focus, really it makes you wonder what she has been dreaming, and then she shakes her head in annoyance and the day goes on.
Then there is Spenny and she is 16 and she is the same, she sleeps 23 hours a day and if anything she is deafer than Brandy. Out of the blue we hear the farmer roaring: "SPENNY!" And then the day goes on. Then we see the rudely awoken Spenny on her constitutional, circling the house arthritically, five times like clockwork, after all she may be old but she is still a border collie, before going on to another power nap.
Tommy aka Tomba aka Tomba-la-Bamba the horse is 26 but he doesn't go in for all-day sleeping, it isn't his cup of tea, and he isn't deaf either. He is just thin when he used to always be fat but otherwise you wouldn't know he is a dinosaur.
Anyway a day doesn't go by that we don't hear "BRANDY!"
Or "SPENNY!"
And then we hear a little snort. And then we hear the farmer again, in a normal voice: "Not today."
Some other day, maybe. But not today.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Bassmaster
~~~ Lifeboats Part 2 ~~~
The next morning the farmer comes out and starts feeding. The farmer notices that Binky is opening her mouth and doing the donkey bray of alarm. Only no sound is coming out. She is too hoarse.
"That's odd," says the farmer.
"Peep," screams Binky, sounding like a distant mouse.
Binky has a bag of milk the size of Rhode Island.
"That's odd," says the farmer.
"Peep," Binky mute-bellows.
Finally a glimmer goes on in the farmer's eyes. The farmer trots over and looks under the porch and can't see anything. The farmer gets the tractor and turns the tractor lights on and aims them under the porch. The farmer can't see anything. The farmer gets down and wiggles a few feet under the porch and re-adjusts the tractor lights and off in a distant dark completely inaccessible under-porch area sees a faint glimmer of one of Binky's babies - the pale sundgau stripe on one of his black cheeks.
Binky is on the loose now and running all around the porch silent-screaming. Occasionally she gets a faint heroic peep out.
The farmer calls the babies. Nothing. The farmer puzzles. The farmer gets on top of the porch and looks down through the floorboards and is able to locate the baby spot, just beside the workbench where the farmer has been cutting boards for the new fence gates. The farmer gets the air compressor and points the nozzle through the crack in the floorboards, about a quarter inch wide. The farmer turns the compressor on, blowing air on the babies. The purpose of this idea remains mysterious; in any case the babies don't move.
"Hmm," says the farmer.
The farmer tries a couple of other bad ideas. Then the farmer gets a good idea. The farmer picks up the phone and calls the neighbor, a mechanical genius.
Within a few minutes the neighbor has arrived and fashioned a ten foot long baby goat fishing pole out of pvc pipe, some bolts, and a foot long metal hook designed for holding hoses. The neighbor crawls a few feet under the porch, deploys the fishing pole skillfully, hooks the sundgau baby, and pulls him out, inch by inch.
The baby emerges, blinking, covered with dirt, spider webs, and sawdust blown down on him through the porch floorboards by the air compressor.
"I wonder how he got all that sawdust on him," says the neighbor.
"That's strange, isn't it," says the farmer.
While the first baby is drinking a gallon of milk the second baby comes out on her own.
For no reason at all Binky gazes at the farmer with admiration as the two babies empty her bag of milk in record time.
The next morning the farmer comes out and starts feeding. The farmer notices that Binky is opening her mouth and doing the donkey bray of alarm. Only no sound is coming out. She is too hoarse.
"That's odd," says the farmer.
"Peep," screams Binky, sounding like a distant mouse.
Binky has a bag of milk the size of Rhode Island.
"That's odd," says the farmer.
"Peep," Binky mute-bellows.
Finally a glimmer goes on in the farmer's eyes. The farmer trots over and looks under the porch and can't see anything. The farmer gets the tractor and turns the tractor lights on and aims them under the porch. The farmer can't see anything. The farmer gets down and wiggles a few feet under the porch and re-adjusts the tractor lights and off in a distant dark completely inaccessible under-porch area sees a faint glimmer of one of Binky's babies - the pale sundgau stripe on one of his black cheeks.
Binky is on the loose now and running all around the porch silent-screaming. Occasionally she gets a faint heroic peep out.
The farmer calls the babies. Nothing. The farmer puzzles. The farmer gets on top of the porch and looks down through the floorboards and is able to locate the baby spot, just beside the workbench where the farmer has been cutting boards for the new fence gates. The farmer gets the air compressor and points the nozzle through the crack in the floorboards, about a quarter inch wide. The farmer turns the compressor on, blowing air on the babies. The purpose of this idea remains mysterious; in any case the babies don't move.
"Hmm," says the farmer.
The farmer tries a couple of other bad ideas. Then the farmer gets a good idea. The farmer picks up the phone and calls the neighbor, a mechanical genius.
Within a few minutes the neighbor has arrived and fashioned a ten foot long baby goat fishing pole out of pvc pipe, some bolts, and a foot long metal hook designed for holding hoses. The neighbor crawls a few feet under the porch, deploys the fishing pole skillfully, hooks the sundgau baby, and pulls him out, inch by inch.
The baby emerges, blinking, covered with dirt, spider webs, and sawdust blown down on him through the porch floorboards by the air compressor.
"I wonder how he got all that sawdust on him," says the neighbor.
"That's strange, isn't it," says the farmer.
While the first baby is drinking a gallon of milk the second baby comes out on her own.
For no reason at all Binky gazes at the farmer with admiration as the two babies empty her bag of milk in record time.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Last Call for the Lifeboats
Ok Crumpet lives by herself in the horse pasture now. She has a secret squeeze hole no one else can get through and she squeezed through and now she lives under one of the cable spools, like a little troll.
She decided to move there because that pasture is centrally located with access to the barn, the horse feeders, the fat girl pasture, and the coddled pregnant Nigerian ladies' pasture. These are all places where two meals a day are served and Crumpet eats some of every meal and if you are keeping track that is eight meals a day plus tips.
The tips are the farmer actually lets Crumpet inside the feed chute to clean up any spilled grain after the fat girl feeding. So really that is nine meals a day. I know what you are thinking: has she gotten any bigger. Well maybe half an inch.
Anyway Wronny had her triplets and Binky had her twins and Jessie had a little single and then Sandy had a single and then Bing had twins and so did Blue Jaye and the farmer went to let some of the babies out for the first time because the babies like to go outside and eat some dirt as soon as possible, I don't know why, it probably puts some good local germs in their stomachs and it was decided that the big babies would go out.
So out went Wronny and Binky and Jessie and their kids. Now since time began the kids go out and if it is a warm day eventually they go under the porch of the cottage to take a nap where it is cool and safe. And that's what happened.
All the babies eventually toddled off under the porch and went to sleep. An hour clicked by and they started coming back out for a milk refill. Fredwina and Doxie and Ramona bunny-hopped out. Jessie's little son came out about twenty minutes later.
Another hour went by and Binky started giving her donkey bray of alarm. This is similar to her donkey bray of comprehension only much louder and filled with gloom and horror.
The farmer did not notice. The farmer was preoccupied because Crumpet had been running in and out everywhere, step-dancing on the hayloft stairs and t-boning Wronny's triplets because they are the only goats she has ever seen that are smaller than she is. Of course these were all hit-and-run jobs because Crumpet knows what would happen if Wronny caught her t-boning a triplet.
Binky continued her donkey bray of alarm.
"We are going to have to get a tape of that," the farmer murmured absently. "Surely there is a contest somewhere for the best end-of-the-world donkey bray of alarm."
The farmer did some chores and pottered about mislaying things and forgetting to fill the water and getting the feed buckets ready.
Binky took her donkey bray of alarm up a notch. It sounded like the last call for the lifeboats on the Titanic.
"That is really something," said the farmer. By this time everyone had had dinner and was put to bed, with Crumpet back under her spool and darkness falling. Wronny was tucked in with her triplets, and Jessie's little son was asleep under the hay feeder. Binky stood at the gate braying desperately.
"You are really upset about something aren't you Binky," said the farmer, patting Binky.
Binky bellowed.
"I know there is a lot going on for you," said the farmer, using techniques learned at middle management school.
Binky did not go to middle management school and she was not placated. She bellowed hoarsely.
"Well, good night everybody," said the farmer, and turned off the lights.
~~~to be continued ~~~~~
The tips are the farmer actually lets Crumpet inside the feed chute to clean up any spilled grain after the fat girl feeding. So really that is nine meals a day. I know what you are thinking: has she gotten any bigger. Well maybe half an inch.
Anyway Wronny had her triplets and Binky had her twins and Jessie had a little single and then Sandy had a single and then Bing had twins and so did Blue Jaye and the farmer went to let some of the babies out for the first time because the babies like to go outside and eat some dirt as soon as possible, I don't know why, it probably puts some good local germs in their stomachs and it was decided that the big babies would go out.
So out went Wronny and Binky and Jessie and their kids. Now since time began the kids go out and if it is a warm day eventually they go under the porch of the cottage to take a nap where it is cool and safe. And that's what happened.All the babies eventually toddled off under the porch and went to sleep. An hour clicked by and they started coming back out for a milk refill. Fredwina and Doxie and Ramona bunny-hopped out. Jessie's little son came out about twenty minutes later.
Another hour went by and Binky started giving her donkey bray of alarm. This is similar to her donkey bray of comprehension only much louder and filled with gloom and horror.
The farmer did not notice. The farmer was preoccupied because Crumpet had been running in and out everywhere, step-dancing on the hayloft stairs and t-boning Wronny's triplets because they are the only goats she has ever seen that are smaller than she is. Of course these were all hit-and-run jobs because Crumpet knows what would happen if Wronny caught her t-boning a triplet.
Binky continued her donkey bray of alarm.
"We are going to have to get a tape of that," the farmer murmured absently. "Surely there is a contest somewhere for the best end-of-the-world donkey bray of alarm."
The farmer did some chores and pottered about mislaying things and forgetting to fill the water and getting the feed buckets ready.
Binky took her donkey bray of alarm up a notch. It sounded like the last call for the lifeboats on the Titanic.
"That is really something," said the farmer. By this time everyone had had dinner and was put to bed, with Crumpet back under her spool and darkness falling. Wronny was tucked in with her triplets, and Jessie's little son was asleep under the hay feeder. Binky stood at the gate braying desperately.
"You are really upset about something aren't you Binky," said the farmer, patting Binky.
Binky bellowed.
"I know there is a lot going on for you," said the farmer, using techniques learned at middle management school.
Binky did not go to middle management school and she was not placated. She bellowed hoarsely.
"Well, good night everybody," said the farmer, and turned off the lights.
~~~to be continued ~~~~~
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Binky Loves the Sky
Binky had a stomach ache and she went to lie down and she accidentally had two kids, a buck and a doe, they shot out like champagne corks. Pop-pop, presto. Those are their names. Poor Binky, she did not know she was bred.
"Whaaat?" she said.
"That's why you are in the barn, Binky, instead of in the fat girl pasture where you usually are," I told her.
"Whaaat?" said Binky. Poor Binky, she does not know what 'barn' means.
"It is the big white building all around you," I explained. "You are in the middle of it, in a stall."
This what I told her might as well have been The Dead Sea Scrolls read aloud in the original Hebrew.
"Whaat?" said Binky. Poor Binky. How can she understand 'building' when she doesn't understand 'barn.' How?
While she was distracted Pop-pop and Presto advanced on her and began drinking milk and she gave a loud donkey bray which is Binky's signal of comprehension.
"I have two kids!" she yelled at me. She was delighted. "Do you know where they came from?"
I did not have time to try to explain, so Eo took over.
"From the sky," snapped Eo, drily.
"I love the sky!" Binky brayed.
Later that day Bing had two kids and after they were up and running they went to share Binky's stall.
We all heard Binky braying with delight again a few minutes later. "I have two more kids!"
"Whaaat?" she said.
"That's why you are in the barn, Binky, instead of in the fat girl pasture where you usually are," I told her.
"Whaaat?" said Binky. Poor Binky, she does not know what 'barn' means.
"It is the big white building all around you," I explained. "You are in the middle of it, in a stall."
This what I told her might as well have been The Dead Sea Scrolls read aloud in the original Hebrew.
"Whaat?" said Binky. Poor Binky. How can she understand 'building' when she doesn't understand 'barn.' How?
While she was distracted Pop-pop and Presto advanced on her and began drinking milk and she gave a loud donkey bray which is Binky's signal of comprehension.
"I have two kids!" she yelled at me. She was delighted. "Do you know where they came from?"
I did not have time to try to explain, so Eo took over.
"From the sky," snapped Eo, drily.
"I love the sky!" Binky brayed.
Later that day Bing had two kids and after they were up and running they went to share Binky's stall.
We all heard Binky braying with delight again a few minutes later. "I have two more kids!"
Wednesday, May 08, 2013
Fredwina's Guide to Getting Born, or, Meet the Mashed-Up Hand
Ok if you are planning to get born you may not know how to do it so this is a guide on getting born or anyway this is how I did it yesterday. Ok first of all wait for an inconvenient time when there is an important appointment or something like that. Ok then stick your head out, just your head. It will be light out, lighter than inside anyway.
What you will see is a red-faced farmer and what you will hear is a farmer cussing.
"Damn it," the farmer will say. "A head and no feet! Damn it!"
Then the best thing is close your eyes but if you don't you will see a big mashed-up hand coming toward you and it will push against your nose and your whole face and the lights will go out and you will find yourself sliding back inside in the dark but if you listen closely you will still be able to hear the cussing.
"&#&%$%#!!!!" (muffled)
Then you will feel the mashed-up hand groping around and grabbing one of your legs and the mashed-up hand will bend your joints just to be sure they all bend in the same direction like a front leg should and then the hand will pull your leg up over your head which isn't very comfortable. Then the hand will grope around for another leg and then the next thing you know the mashed-up hand starts pulling you out by the legs and unceremoniously sticking its fingers in your nostrils to use them as a handle for pulling your head around. And cussing of course, but absent-mindedly by now.
All at once you will start to hear a lot of heartfelt bellowing and this is your mother congratulating you on the size of your head as it passes through her birth canal and the next thing you know you are out and about and everyone is waiting on you hand and foot and the limelight is blinding and the milk is delicious but hold the phone, all of a sudden you are yesterday's news, because "here comes the next one," says the farmer, "get some more towels."
So that's how you do it. My name is Fredwina. Do I look like I was born yesterday? That's because I was.
What you will see is a red-faced farmer and what you will hear is a farmer cussing.
"Damn it," the farmer will say. "A head and no feet! Damn it!"
Then the best thing is close your eyes but if you don't you will see a big mashed-up hand coming toward you and it will push against your nose and your whole face and the lights will go out and you will find yourself sliding back inside in the dark but if you listen closely you will still be able to hear the cussing.
"&#&%$%#!!!!" (muffled)
Then you will feel the mashed-up hand groping around and grabbing one of your legs and the mashed-up hand will bend your joints just to be sure they all bend in the same direction like a front leg should and then the hand will pull your leg up over your head which isn't very comfortable. Then the hand will grope around for another leg and then the next thing you know the mashed-up hand starts pulling you out by the legs and unceremoniously sticking its fingers in your nostrils to use them as a handle for pulling your head around. And cussing of course, but absent-mindedly by now.
So that's how you do it. My name is Fredwina. Do I look like I was born yesterday? That's because I was.
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