The Hurrier I Go

The hurrier I go, the behinder I get.  I received one of the now-familiar phone calls yesterday before going to the barn.  "Is this the Goat Lady?"  It seems a young Nigerian dwarf doe had given birth to a tiny kid and then wanted nothing to do with it.  This isn't uncommon in first-time mothers.  The owners had held her down so the kid could at least get some of the first milk, the colostrum, but decided they'd better have a backup plan and someone had given them my number.  The caller said she'd phone back later to let me know when she'd be here.  I got a wild hair (who'm I kidding...I've got a head full of wild hairs) to get a haircut (this only happens every two or three years) and got a last-minute appointment for noon.  Rushed through the milking with a half-hour to spare, enough time to finish the chores and get cleaned up.  As I was hurriedly straining the milk, the strainer tipped off the jar and there went milk all over the counter and stove top.  Clean up the milk, or clean me up?  I got to the hairdresser's on time, still in my bibbies and barn shoes. 

At five-thirty today, barely daylight, I could hear Joel out on his tractor, spraying his vineyard.  The work day starts early up here.  I, myself, am taking the day off (after milking and the other chores).  Arden and I are going to the Fair Play Wine Festival!