One of the girls had not come in to be milked for three days. Three guesses as to which one (and the first two don't count). Of course, it was Inga. Again. Usually by the second day of this silliness she figures out how to end that painfully swollen udder and gets up on the stand, but not this go-round. Aargh. Nothing for it but the leash, which she hates, to bring her out of her stall and into the milking room. I know it hurts her when the bag is so full, and it does no good to tell her she did it to herself. Her tiny teats are almost impossible to grasp when the skin is so taut and it is a two-finger squeeze, one side at a time, until I can get enough milked out and the udder becomes supple. The process is complicated because she lifts a hind leg in pain on either side and the risk of a foot in the bucket is real. Milk squirts everywhere: on me, on her, on the stand, and some in the pail (if I'm lucky). To give some perspective, normally I can milk Inga in about 300 squeezes and approximately 10 minutes. Yesterday it was over 700 squeezes and 25 minutes. Mother was not pleased, nor were the girls who had to wait for their turn. Inga had better get used to the leash.
There's not much to write about on a NASCAR Sunday. The sound of engines is soporific and I took the obligatory race-day nap, grateful for the replay feature on the television. I can go back to when my eyes closed to see what I might have missed and fast-forward through commercials. NASCAR days are very restful.
Sunset last evening was lovely, but what really caught my eye when chores were done was the full moon rising.