One description of optimism is that of the little boy digging in a pile of horse manure, sure he'd find the pony. I've yet to make the dump run, so that pile of Poppy fleece has stayed out by the pen. The vultures have begun tearing into it, optimistically looking for a meal. I'm sorry to disappoint them; it was not my intent to psych them out. I do, however, whisper to Poppy, "Just keep moving, sweetie, keep moving."
Goats can be such dorks. Their lives depend on their self-preservation skills, but they have no sense of discrimination. A neighbor's cat, kitten really, gets a big chuckle out of scaring the girls. They are sure this small black feline is a full-grown panther with claws and teeth, intent on ripping them to pieces. They cluster together, snorting and stamping, and will not take their eyes off the enemy. I might think it is funny, but Cat shows up at bedtime and makes getting the girls into the barn very, very difficult. Poppy, of course, could care less about the cat. Nothing gets in the way of a snack where Poppy is concerned. She and Sheila share a bowl, but there is nothing left for Sheila by the time I get her into their stall when Cat is around. I see Cat here at various times of the day, and have found piles of feathers where Cat has dined on barn birds. Cat is only doing what cats do, and I don't fault their nature. I do, however, wish this cat didn't get such a kick out of watching the nighttime round up. I try explaining to the girls that it is only a kitty and will not hurt them. They look at me like I'm speaking a foreign language, and I'm stupid, to boot. It again took almost until dark last evening to finally get the last goat inside and, of course, goats don't like to go in where they cannot see all four corners. Arrgh.