There's a Limit

I've arbitrarily refused to sell goats in the past when the buyer didn't meet my standards.  Forgiving two prior no-shows, I worked extra hard in the barn and spiffed up the house because the woman who'd said she definitely wanted Nineteen was coming yesterday.  I had geared myself emotionally to let my boy go; this woman talked a good talk, and we'd spoken about her taking Tessie's kids after weaning.  And I waited.  And waited.  Two and one-half hours after our appointment time, I called and told her I'd save her the trip out.  I might be cranky, but Nineteen is too sweet to go to someone so irresponsible.  There's a limit.

Having pretty much shot the day, in late afternoon Bess, the cats and I walked down into the south pasture to sit on the grinding rock and enjoy the sunshine.  Bessie Anne cocked an ear to the new neighbors across the road, Pearl checked out some ground squirrel burrows, and Frank just sat beside me getting his ears rubbed.  Suddenly, from behind, we were joined by a new companion.  This lizard ran across my lap and down my pants leg, turned to a better vantage point, and we looked at each other. 

I talked to my new friend, I moved to more comfortable positions, I took pictures.  Other than moving to the other, sunnier leg, Lizard stayed put.  We sat together for more than a half-hour, and I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to invite him in for dinner.  Mice, squirrels, turkeys, chickens, goats, sheep, dog, and cats.  What next?  Come on, there's a limit!  Finally Lizard abandoned me with a flick of his tail as I stood up to go back to the house. 

On those days when I think there's nothing to write about, something always turns up.