I've heard of range wars, turf wars, and corporate wars, but never in all my born days did I ever expect to be on the battleground, smack-dab in the middle of a poop war. And it's escalating! Earle came yesterday and staked out his claim to all the poop in Nineteen's old stall. He'd hoped to be able to drive his little truck down to the barn and fill it from there, but the gate is too narrow. After sequestering the goats and Poppy in the new pen, I offered him the use of my lawn tractor and trailer, pulled it out of the shed for him, and left him to it. I thought there wasn't a man in the world who wouldn't know how to run one of those; silly me. I did not mean to embarrass Earle, truly. It was only when he came to the front door again to ask if I'd be kind enough to drive the tractor to the barn for him that I realized agriculture probably hadn't been his college major. It's a wise man who knows his limitations.
I haul out between two and four big buckets of my renewable resource from the barn daily, and the poop pile grows rapidly. Careful scheduling is going to be a must or I'm going to have to establish some Marquess of Queensberry rules here. No dueling with pitchforks at ten paces. No guerrilla tactics, no night raids to get a jump on the competition.
I'm definitely going to be the winner in this race between Earle and Kellen and William to get to the poop first. Kellen and William have brought me carrots, bok choy, and sweet baby Tokyo turnips from their garden. Earle has offered to prune the sadly neglected peach and plum trees in the front orchard. With continued cooperation from the girls, this could be a win-win-win war. Seriously!