I've arbitrarily refused to sell goats in the past when the buyer didn't meet my standards. Forgiving two prior no-shows, I worked extra hard in the barn and spiffed up the house because the woman who'd said she definitely wanted Nineteen was coming yesterday. I had geared myself emotionally to let my boy go; this woman talked a good talk, and we'd spoken about her taking Tessie's kids after weaning. And I waited. And waited. Two and one-half hours after our appointment time, I called and told her I'd save her the trip out. I might be cranky, but Nineteen is too sweet to go to someone so irresponsible. There's a limit.
On those days when I think there's nothing to write about, something always turns up.