The Milkman Cometh

(Apologies to Eugene O'Neill)

I was down in the barn milking when I got a call from Milk Guy, saying he'd be here in a half-hour or so.  Hmmm.  I really do try to accommodate his erratic schedule, but there was no way I could finish barn chores and get back to the house that fast, so had to ask for a time extension.  I'm picking up at least four eggs a day now, so the dozen MG buys weekly are definitely fresh.  As added insurance, I wait until the day he comes to wash the eggs.  When laid, eggs are coated with a mucus that seals them airtight for a time.  For Monday pick-up, milk is saved on Sunday just in case Sheila puts a foot in the bucket or some other catastrophe befalls.  The girls are producing like dairy cows just now, but during the dry days of summer, the supply is not as much so I can fill a jar with Monday's extra if need be.  It's called planning ahead.

At any rate, the eggs were clean, if damp, and in their carton and milk jars were ready when MG drove up.  I'd only delayed his planned activities by a short time.

I think Bessie's eyes are getting worse.  Whenever I'm at the computer and at night, my stumpy-legged little girl needs a boost up onto the bed.  She puts her front legs up for leverage so I can help get the back end up there.  Until this last week, she's been able to jump down on her own.  Lately, I leave the room and she starts crying, sometimes walking along the edge of the bed, looking down but afraid to make the leap.  I'd like to help, but she's too heavy for me to carry, so the best I can do is offer encouragement.  I think she's lost depth perception.  It must be like jumping into the abyss for her.  I'm going to try putting a milk crate by the bed and see if she can manage with that.