Thursday, January 26, 2012
There was a message on the machine when I got back up from the barn yesterday. It was Kellan, asking for dibs on the poop pile. (She and William got edged out on the last go-round.) Earle is out of town for another week, and he's laid claim to Nineteen's stall, so Kellan and William drew the winning number this time. I don't know why this contest strikes me so funny, but it does. I'm the one who is coming out ahead as the pile grows at an alarming rate in the winter, the girls spending longer hours in the barn and doing what goats do. In the beginning when I had only a couple of goats, I would haul a bucket or two up the hill daily to dump behind the garden fence. More goats, more poop, and Steve got me a cart so I could carry the additional load (gee, thanks). I don't know precisely when it happened, but over time the hill became steeper and the garden moved farther away, and trundling a cart of poop became more than I could handle. I don't honestly remember if it was in the wet of winter or the heat of summer when I conceded defeat, but I started dumping the buckets over the pen fence into what was the south pasture. That's now part of the new pen, but still accessible by truck or tractor. We're due for a week or so of sunshine, so say the weathermen, and William and I agreed that he should wait a few days for the ground to dry out before they come for more garden gold, so as not to put ruts in the pasture. It's obvious I'm going to have to start taking reservations for more than the "B&B."