Feed supplies were getting low; not critically, but low. It could have waited another day, but it wasn't raining at the moment and discretion seemed the better part of valor so I jumped in the truck to do the deed. Less than a mile from the house, I had to turn on the windshield wipers. Of course I did. Patrick was kind enough to wrap a plastic sheet around the bags of goat chow for the ride home. Unloading three hundred pounds of feed in drizzling rain was, shall I say, not my idea of fun, but it was good that I'd gone when I did.