All was quiet in the feed room in the morning and I was filled with smug satisfaction, thinking I'd finally outsmarted Thing and his wrecking crew. Down in the barn, it was a little lonely because, although it was nice not to have to battle Percy and gang, not one mouse came out for breakfast or a slurp of milk. I guess my feelings for the smallest residents at Farview depend on location, location, location. There was only the borborygmus of the goats to keep me company. I just love the word borborygmus (rumbling in the stomach and gut due to movement of gas) because it sounds just like what it is. It is very important to hear this in horses, goats, cattle, etc., because a quiet gut is a sign of colic, which can be deadly. Flatulence in humans is embarrassing, but when a goat passes gas, it's reassuring. (I don't know how you can work this information into polite conversation, but feel free to use it should the occasion arise.)
In the afternoon I made a big batch of marinara sauce with tomatoes from Beau's garden. Gardeners are known for optimism and enthusiasm and are incapable of planting one or two of anything, resulting in an overabundance of everything. I'm about squash-ed out. As much as I like them, there are just so many ways to fix a squash and I've done them all. Too many tomatoes can always be made into sauce. Back in the day, Joel and I would coordinate our gardens so we could plant different vegetables and trade off. Offering zucchini to a person who had planted zucchini was taking coals to Newcastle.
At day's end when I was putting the kids to bed, I turned on the light in the feed room and, wouldn't you know it, heard the sound of small feet scurrying for cover. Oh dear. There weren't nearly as many as before, but still. Now I don't know if Thing had chewed his way in, or if I'd trapped a few laggards in the feed room where they can't get to the feed or get out. That's the stuff of nightmares. Oh dear.