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."

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.

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."

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.

Mr. Jingles on Guard

Nothing escapes the notice of a sentry of this caliber...

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?

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."

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 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.

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.

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.

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 ~~~~~

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!"

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.

The Iron Baby

Crumpet has refused to grow and when the farmer went to measure her against the scratch on the tack room door from February there was no point in making a new scratch because it would have been in the same place as the February scratch. But nonetheless her personality is getting bigger and bigger and pretty soon there will not be enough room in her body for it.

For some reason when a tiny goat has the personality of a tyrant which Crumpet does everyone seems to think it is adorable.

"Oh look at the little one! It is t-boning that big one's knee! Ha ha ha!"

Yes, very funny, I guess these people have never heard of a torn ACL. She is also a fast runner and has developed a system of escape holes that no one else can fit through. You would have better luck finding Nemo than catching Crumpet. So she does a lot of hit and runs. She is also so low to the ground that any attempted return t-bonings can result in a head injury to those seeking justice. Pinky demonstrated this the other day. Or maybe that is not a head injury.

Anyway there is only truly one way to describe Crumpet. She is a handbagger. If anyone was wondering where the spirit of Margaret Thatcher the Milk Snatcher went, it is right here, alive and well, and wreaking havoc.

 Handbagger

Margaret Thatcher, who always had a large handbag at her side, was actually the source of the term “handbagging,” which now appears in the Oxford English dictionary. A member of British Parliament once said that Thatcher couldn’t “look at a British institution without hitting it with her handbag,” and the expression stuck. Today, it is defined as the “verbal and psychological beating of one’s opponents,” and it is formally recognized as having been named after Margaret Thatcher.

Double Toothpicks

We have a lot of ratchet straps here. If you have the right number and the right kind of ratchet straps you can tie anything down. Really anything. A barn or a tugboat or anything. There is a certain kind of person who really likes to tie things down. This includes a lot of farmers.

This type of person will have a process for tying things down and probably a set of homemade load binders and if you stand too close to this type of person during certain times of the year - hay season, usually - the person may just spontaneously start describing how they tie things down. You will have to move a safe distance away to avoid this. Pretend you have seen a flock of hummingbirds in the distance and just move discreetly out of range, with your eyes fixed on the horizon.

During the hay season our farmer always surveys the other trucks in the field to make sure that none of them are getting more bales on their truck than we are. If one of them is, the farmer will mutter, "well, that is a flatbed," or, "they won't get home with that load."  By way of introduction the farmer may walk up to newcomers in the hay field and ask innocently, "how many bales can you get on your truck?"

Once the answer came back, "65," and the whole day was ruined because it is a known fact that Brownie's world record is 63 bales of hay. That is if we have good hay monkeys - teenage boys, usually - and the right kind of ratchet straps. If the farmer is loading alone that number drops in half.

On the other hand once there was a man with a shiny new truck that looked like it cost about $50,000 and he told the farmer proudly that he was able to get 16 bales of hay on his truck and the farmer spent the rest of the day chuckling fondly.

Wendell chuckled too, he is a yes man, every time the farmer said, "Sixteen bales!"

Anyway I am only thinking about tying down because yesterday there was an unexpected bonanza. When the farmer went to the feed mill a shipment of peas had come in out of season.

We did not know there were going to be peas. When the peas came out to the feeders, all hell broke loose. Usually we are supposed to keep the Hell tied down, double toothpicks and all, with the twin ratchet straps of a tough herdqueen and a predictable routine. Or at least part of the way tied down. But there is no herdqueen who can hold the herd when unexpected peas arrive.

And the ratchet strap has not been made.

So it broke loose. Way loose. Completely loose. All of it.

May I Have This Askance?

Well a couple of weeks ago we had a nice weekend and the temperature got up in the 60s. And then after that everything went sideways, with hail and sleet and wind and nighttimes almost freezing. But Moldy for some reason as soon as we had one nice day she thought she was back in Lagos or something because she shed her whole coat out way too far to the point of being practically bald. Anyway I thought that was her own fault and it might be a good opportunity for her to learn a lesson but the farmer started looking around for a jacket for Moldy. But Moldy has not missed many meals and her circumference is too big for a regular Nigerian jacket and too small for a big goat jacket.

So this gave a good opportunity for a Vocabulary Day. It is always good to learn new words, especially if you are part Nubian where learning a new word can practically double your vocabulary. Don't worry, you Nubians out there, I am not going to ask you to do any math problems, but if someone in the future asks you what double means it means twice as much (2 banana peels instead of one).

Anyway: Askance.

adv. With an attitude or look of suspicion or disapproval. Suspiciously, doubtfully, dubiously, skeptically, disapprovingly, distrustfully, mistrustfully. 

used in a sentence: "When Moldy appeared out of nowhere tippy-toeing along on her little dachshund legs in a royal blue jacket two sizes too small, Willen looked at her askance."

Tadpole Jubilee

Okay there was a switch. The whole Jammies family except Jinxy and the whole Moldy family came down here in our pasture. My mother came back down here too. The Blue family came also and the Betty family.

Wronny Soprano stayed where she was so was so Abby and I were able to have the full-blown smackdown we have been planning for years. We started the smackdown one on one and it went really well and then my daughter Izzy joined me and the tide turned immediately but then Moldy came in on the Abby side and the tide turned back and my mother Belle Pepper came in and then Pebbles put a head in on the Moldy side and all in all it was a top-rated smackdown, certainly the best smackdown in years, but just when it was reaching its peak Maddy the Sheriff of Crazytown raced past with Eo hot on her heels in a state of apoplectic rage.

Now Eo never makes a sound and rules through mind control and spraying the fear on everyone and how you can tell she is in a state of apoplectic rage, as opposed to her usual state of seething rage or her slightly elevated state of simmering rage is that her ears will go back like a horse when it is about to kick someone. Anyway Maddy breezed past us, as they say at the racetrack, and Eo was hot on her heels, with her ears back and Game of Thrones written all over her face in bold gothic type.

A word about Maddy, just one word: crazy. Here is how Maddy operates: when she is up with the bigs she cowers and scrapes and can hardly get a bite to eat. The farmer is constantly having to take her out and give her special food and feed her on her own so that she doesn't get thin as a rail and she is also super picky and often will stand on the milkstand with her special meals picking out the corn from the feeder and then tossing the oats and barley on the floor and when the farmer sees this the farmer's ears will go slightly back like a horse about to kick someone and little puffs of smoke will come out the farmer's ears and then we usually will get to hear one of our favorite speeches, either the "Is This the Thanks I Get?" speech or the "Do You Know How Much Grain Costs These Days?" speech.

But then if Maddy goes in with little goats or even babies she turns immediately from abject coward to world's biggest bully and delights in nothing more than t-boning unsuspecting Nigerians which there aren't very many unsuspecting Nigerians but now and then she finds one. So anyway the farmer thought it would be a good time to put Maddy in with the smalls since there was a big change happening anyway and probably  nobody would notice her etc which we probably never would have what with our excellent smackdown but of course the farmer neglected to consider our fearless leader Eo whose radar goes all the way to the ground and possibly even deeper than that so there is absolutely no way to get under it.

Maddy did not get two steps into our pasture before Eo was on her tail. Elbie and Too, the mini-manchas, joined the parade. We dropped our smackdown and joined.  Even Moldy ran a few steps on her dachshund legs before yelling, "That's Right! You Heard Me!" and lying down to catch her breath. The parade raged over hill and dale, with the mini-manchas' tongues hanging out, and Maddy loping tirelessly - she has a lot of practice running - and after a while we decided to drop out for the hilly parts and catch up on the flat runs, but Eo ran with gimlet eyes, her fury never never dimming, always two steps behind Maddy. NOT IN MY PASTURE.

It was definitely a case of tadpoles' revenge. If you get enough tadpoles you can rout a whale, especially if the tadpoles have a leader like Eo. After about twenty highly aerobic minutes the farmer gave up and opened the gate to let Maddy out, and then closed the gate on Eo, two steps behind.

Maddy turned around when she was sure the gate was tightly closed, and she was probably thinking of saying something, but when she saw the look in Eo's eyes she could not think of any remarks that would really suit the occasion. So she scampered off and the rest of the day was a tadpole jubilee.

By the Gate

Some people get tired of their mother when they get to be big. They forget about all the milk their mother gave them. This would be understandable if their mother was Winjay who did nothing but bite their ears. Other than that it is mysterious. Anyway I am just mentioning this because it just occurred to me.

I guess it occurred to me because my mother Belle Pepper got a little too thin and she went up to the big barn to go on fattening. I did not get too thin unfortunately so I am still down in the fat girl pasture. By this time of year at the end of the winter nobody in the fat girl pasture is really fat any more but it is still called the fat girl pasture which is mysterious.

Anyway I am standing by the gate. My daughter Izzy is standing by me. She stands where I stand. We are waiting. We were crying for a while, about two days, but now we are just standing. Izzy was only crying because I was crying. She cries when I cry.

Anyway everyone else is down in the cabana which is still slated to be demolished but only if it doesn't fall down first and it is going to be a close race because now every little windstorm we have a few more pieces fall off the cabana and by this time it makes the average desperate hovel look like something from the pages of Martha Stewart Living but that is ok, I like to live someplace with an airy feel and it definitely has an airy feel what with the wind blowing in from all directions but that is not really what I am talking about today.

Some of these fancy expensive barns do not have an airy feel is all I am saying. Maybe you should ask yourself does my barn have an airy feel or are all my goats standing outside it lined up head to tail under the overhang to get out of the rain because they do not want to go inside. That is one thing you could put on your list of questions to ask yourself when you have time. Also you should ask yourself why am I buying this cheap hay when the expensive hay tastes so much better?

Anyway I am waiting by the gate because in a few minutes the farmer is going to start feeding us. The gate is as close as I can get to the big barn. Then everyone else will rush up from the cabana and the inside goats will rush out and we will all feed along the fenceline with Eo the boss of the fat girl pasture hogging as much food as possible and on the other side Moldy and Abby will be seething along one side of the line with Betty and Jammies seething along the other side. The minions and underlings will sort themselves out.

Usually I like to eat as much as possible and I am good at getting my share, I am not a wallflower like Blue or Joy, I know how to elbow my way to the front, but I will worry about that later today because right now I am standing by the gate and I won't do anything until I see my mother Belle Pepper come out. Then I will feel a lot better and I will go and hog some food.

I know she is going to come out. But anyway I am just going to stand by the gate until she does.

A Day in the Life of the Weaner Society: Making Up for Lost Milk

Well the time came and the last of the last year's babies went on long-overdue weaning. This was Crumpet, Crayola, and Jinxy. They were separated from their mothers and the mothers heaved a huge sigh of relief and immediately began stuffing themselves to try to make up for lost ground.

I thought there would be an Almighty Oregonian racket but there was hardly a peep among the weaners  it was almost like they knew they had already had way too much milk. Anyway the weaners settled down together and as always happens a little society formed with Crumpet as the President and Jinxy as the Vice President and Crayola as the factotum.

Crayola is Crumpet's air mattress, and so at night time the President waits patiently while Crayola lies down first. Then when Crumpet has picked which side she wants to lie against, Jinxy goes around to the other side and plumps Crayola up a little and then she lies down. And then in the morning Crumpet gets up and then Jinxy. And finally Crayola the air mattress.

Then Crumpet and Crayola scuttle over to the feeder and jump in because that's where the food will be served and Jinxy scurries to a nearby spot in anticipation of the impending hay and grain. She is a little too fat to actually get in the feeder any more. Then they scarf their breakfast with alarming rapidity.

Then they catapult themselves outside for the day, where there is more food, and scarf their brunch with alarming rapidity. Then the same thing when the hay comes out in the middle of the day, then the same thing at night when they gallop on their little cat's feet back to the barn, where the feeders have been refilled.  You should see them bellied up to the dish, it is quite a sight, throwing the food to their stomachs like golden retrievers.

Their motto is the same as North Carolina's, and if they had little license plates on their rear ends which they probably should, the license plates would say: The Weaner Society: First in Feedom.

Sic Semper Weaners.