Have To Laugh

Tessie and I had a successful milking yesterday.  That simply means she did not flood the room with milk.  It does not mean I had a clean getaway.  She has taken to holding one hind foot up, poised to tip the bucket.  I can block and hold it with the back of one hand, but that is awkward and makes it difficult to direct the stream from her smallish teats.  Consequently, I squirted milk up my nose, in my armpit, all over my bibbies, on the stand...and some in the bucket.  With a first-time milker, that's considered success.

Tess has taken the separation from Twenty-Two pretty well.  She spends her days with the herd and not hanging around the barn.  She does talk to him across the hall when she comes in at night.  I give her reports on his progress, and let her sniff his scent on the bottle and me to reassure her that he is doing fine.  The novelty has worn off and, though heads are raised, the group does not gang up on me as I go down for feedings.

The barn swallow who spattered the lawn tractor with mud evidently decided that side of the barn was too noisy and abandoned that nest.  What is it they say about real estate?  Location, location, location.  Of the two nests that were started on the hay side of the barn, only one was completed.  I disturb her only once a day when I get the alfalfa for the goats in the morning, and she vacates the premises for that short time.

Pick-me-up Peggy and I continue the nightly chicken round up.  Herding hens one-handed is a bit difficult, but how can I refuse this little girl?  She seems to love the ride-along.  Timing is everything, and life would be so much easier if I could put the chickens to bed after the goats.  It would be darker then and they'd probably go in on their own.  Bessie Anne is the monkey wrench in that plan.  Besides, I'd miss my little black-and-white helper hen's company.

Dripping milk in the morning, a chicken under my arm in the evening...some days you just have to laugh.