"There was a little girl, and she had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good. And when she was bad, she was horrid."
My mother was fond of reciting this to me. As I have curly hair, I didn't think it was all that great. I did remember this doggerel yesterday, however, when Inga pulled her "Whut, you talkin' to me?" act. I jinxed myself and should have expected it. For three or four days, the milking had gone like a breeze. When the girls are behaving well and the teats are open and free and the milk just flows, it is a real pleasure and it cuts a third of the time. There are the other days when milking is real work. I had been thanking the girls for their cooperation and looking forward to the job each day. Yesterday Sheila was easy, Tessie was easy, and then there was Inga. "Inga! Come on, Inga." She stood at the corner of the pen and looked at me. "Inga, honey, come on in and get your breakfast!" She took four or five steps in my direction. "Good girl, Inga. Come on." She stopped. I shook the feed bowl to entice her to the barn. She lay down. "Aaargh." Grabbing the rope, I started toward her. She got up and walked away. Inga and I went up hill and down, around and around. I walked slow, she walked slow. I sped up, she ran. Winded and tired, I gave up. When Inga is good, she is very, very good. Yesterday she was horrid.
Is it possible to overdose on pie? Clay came up in the afternoon. He'd volunteered to come back and help finish up the leftovers from the Pie Fest. I had sent some home with him and both he and I had been whittling away at what we had, but there was plenty left. As if pie for dessert weren't enough, I made an asparagus and onion quiche for our main course. I don't know about overdose, but I do know I'm full of pie!
If Inga was bad yesterday, it will be worse for both of us today. A tight udder and tiny teats are nothing to look forward to. And she doesn't even have curly hair.