Bessie Anne looked over my shoulder the other day and saw I'd posted a story about her refusal to go outside. I explained that I hadn't actually called her a wuss, but she felt maligned anyway and was determined to prove me wrong. The cats could not have cared less. Frank was a bit put out that I had not caught his best side in the photo, but they ignored the story just as they had ignored me.
It was only misting as Bessie and I went out together yesterday. Bess took her usual place to watch at the edge of the goat pen and I went on down to do my barn chores. "See, Mom. Neither rain, nor snow...I'll do my job!" Cindy, the first girl, was up on the stand when it began to rain. I expected, and hoped, that Bessie would cut and run and go up to the shelter of the porch. By the time I was milking Inga, second in line, the rain had become a downpour and was beating on the metal roof. Bess held her ground while all six goats took their turn and I cleaned the stalls. Now, if anyone can understand stubborn, I can, but even I have limits. It rained the entire time I was (dry) in the barn and Bessie Anne would not leave her post. Back at the porch, soaked to the skin, she gave "bad hair day" a whole new definition. My guilt was building and I swore I'd never say another derogatory word about my little friend. Wait! Is she giving me the raspberry?