After switching all day between pouting with dark clouds and beaming with sunshine, Spring finally decided on giving us the cold shoulder. The temperature never got up to fifty yesterday, and this morning it is a brisk twenty-four. I am ever so glad that the chimney now has a good draw so the wood stove can do its thing. Still dark, I don't know yet which face Spring will show today. This would not be the day, frown or smile, to have all the doors open again.
Oh, Inga. She cannot seem to get the concept of cause and effect. A few days ago, when the lure of lying in the sun was too great, she absolutely refused to come in to be milked. As I told a friend, there is no creature on earth who can have a more stupid look on its face than a goat who does not want to do what is asked. No matter that they've had the same routine every day of their adult life, it's as if I suddenly began speaking Sanskrit. I did explain to Inga that we would both be hurting the next day if she continued to play dumb, but dumb she was. She showed up at the door the following morning begging to be let in, spraddle-legged with a bulging udder. Inga, with her teensy teats, is difficult to milk on an average day; when the bag is overfull, it is almost impossible and takes forever. There is nothing to grab on to. The teats aren't long enough to be directional so milk squirts everywhere at first and, by the time she's empty, my hands have cramped up something fierce. We did have a long conversation on this subject, but I doubt it had much effect. A goat's gonna do what a goat has to do.