When the last goat leaves the stand, I open the gate to the big pen to give the girls more room to graze. It's my habit then to take a minute to scan the horizon; one, because it's just a beautiful sight; two, looking for smoke plumes that might be from fire or an illegal burn pile; and three, to see what weather might be headed our way. Yesterday as I stood there I kept hearing a crow cawing but couldn't see it (or them). Overhead, a kettle of vultures was circling, coasting on the thermals. There in the vortex was one crow, yelling, "Hey, Ma! Look at me! I'm flying with the big birds!" Whoever said that birds of a feather flock together was wrong.
Cindy's constant complaining was bad enough. Yesterday, she shut up and Tessie and Inga took up the chant. It seems goats never get too old to come into heat. Aaargh.
The timing was perfect to watch "Plymouth Adventure," (1952, Spencer Tracy, Van Johnson, and Gene Tierney) while tearing loaf after loaf of bread for stuffing in the afternoon. This romanticized version of the pilgrims' voyage to the New World was actually a pretty good flick. Too much housework makes a dull girl, and I needed to get a leg up on food prep. (That's my story.)
I have my chair, Bessie Anne has hers. She is aging and has always had trouble with her back legs. If she can get a good enough running start, she can make it onto her chair by herself, but some days she needs a boost. Last night, she started to make an attempt and then put on the brakes. Like Goldilocks, she said, "Somebody's sleeping in my chair! Mom, you have to do something!" Celeste had, indeed, preempted Bess's spot and was curled up in the recliner. Celeste had no intention of vacating and Bessie was insistent. I gave the dog a helping hand and the two snuggled together for the evening. Ralph? Ralph does his own thing.