Poor Little Boy

"Hi, Mom.  What'cha doing?"  "Can't talk now, honey...I'm castrating a goat."  It hurts me to cause an animal pain in any way, but this was for Twenty-Two's own good, and actually gives him a chance for a long life as a wether.  It's definitely a two-person job and I was grateful for the help of a friend.  I'd been concerned because the gonads were not dropping (hence the earlier references to New Year's and Times Square), but finally everything was in place so we could accomplish the banding.  Most heart-breaking was that what Twenty-Two wanted afterward was the comfort of sucking on my thumb.  Poor little boy.

Tessie, Twenty-Two's mama, has settled into the morning routine and races to the barn when it's her turn.  Her one quirk is that she plants herself solidly on my side of the stand and every morning is a wrestling match as I shoulder and push her over so I can sit down.  She carries a full bag and is an easy milker.  I was congratulating her just yesterday for not dancing and kicking anymore, when she calmly lifted a foot and put it daintily into the half-full bucket.  I managed to get the foot out without sending the barn awash, throw out all that milk, and get a clean bucket to finish her up.  Some girls just can't take a compliment.

When the seasons change, they change in a hurry.  Six o'clock and it's barely first light this morning.  I need to start for the barns by seven at night, and even then need to turn on the porch light to see my way back.