Trivial Pursuit

Sitting here waiting for the coffee to kick in, my mind is as blank as the screen.  As the odd thought scurries through, I'll try to catch a couple to share.

A friend down in the valley runs a rabbit rescue service.  She sent me photos a group of rabbits with an attractive woman that were taken for a promotional calendar.  Would these be the original playboy bunnies?  Could one be the mad March hare?  I can't say too much because Deb and Craig's cat, Clyde, is in a calendar on my wall in a pose that would put Burt Reynolds to shame.

Inga not only came without coaxing yesterday, she stood outside the door crying to be let in.  After the copious quantity of the day before, there wasn't much milk in the bag, but cramped fingers still had a problem with the process.

It seems the barn mice are using the diaper (udder) wipes in many ways.  I knew they were taking dry wipes for winter blankets.  Now I watch obviously pregnant mamas shred a wipe into fluff to line their nests.  The oddest thing to me is that as the weather gets warmer and drier, when I toss damp wipes into the bucket they are immediately set upon by mice who rush to suck out moisture. 

I was lucky enough to catch a National Geographic documentary on hummingbirds.  I will not ever be lax in filling their feeders again.  These little guys need to feed every fifteen minutes.  They make it through the night only by going into torpor, their heartbeats dropping from 400 beats per minute to 40 so as to conserve energy.  One of my long-asked questions was answered:  a baby hummer's beak is normal to the size of the bird when hatched and lengthens as the bird grows.  Kind of like a teenage boy's legs.

That's it.  The screen has gone blank again.  It's Trash Day Tuesday and I've got to get this show on the road.

Inga, Inga

Chores begin earlier these days as it's nearly light at five-thirty.  My morning walkabout now includes watering the deck plants as our brief spring appears to be over and summer is close on its heels.  The heat is bringing out those malevolent wasps and this nest in the lavender plant was one of a dozen that I found on the deck yesterday.  (That ratty lavender is over twenty years old, so forgive its unkempt appearance.)

I've seen some strange things here on the farm, but I never anticipated seeing mice porn up close and personal as I did yesterday.  It occurs to me that they are getting too comfortable in my presence when they'll go humpity-humpity right there by my feet.  TMI!

Inga, oh Inga.  Her bag was so full she was squirting milk all over her feet, but she was still reluctant to come in and let me help her.  I'd known milking her was going to take longer so I'd gone down to the barn earlier than usual, but it was still getting hot (went up to the 90s).  Finished with the other girls, I tried the coaxing thing but it didn't work.  Finally I grabbed the rope and went after her.  The only reason I caught her was because she couldn't walk very fast with that swollen udder, but she still made it up to the top of the hill.  Then the battle to get her back to the barn began, one stubborn step at a time and me pulling on the rope and trying not to choke her (although that idea had occurred to me).  Up on the stand at last, milking her was as painful for her and tedious for me as I'd expected.  It averages about six minutes to milk Sheila and, on a good day, maybe ten minutes each for Tessie and Inga; it's the difference in teats; milk production is almost the same for all three.  Already overheated from the struggle to get Inga to come in and with the barn heating up like an oven, sweat streamed into my eyes as I tried to get the milk from those tiny teats streamed into the bucket.  Neither made the job any easier, nor did her constantly putting one back leg in the air, ready to kick.  Thirty minutes later, we were both relieved that the ordeal was over.

One two-gallon bucket has the combined milk from Tessie and Sheila and one has the day's contribution from Inga.  I'd like to think that she learned her lesson.  I've always been an optimist.

I'm not ashamed to say that milking was the last productive thing I did for the rest of the day.

A Goat's Gonna Do...

Bright, perhaps, but goats are not very smart.  Stubborn, definitely.  Night before last, Cindy got it into her head that she was not going into the barn.  I coaxed, wheedled, sweet-talked, and threatened.  I tried bribing with grain.  I gave her options.  "You don't want to go in that door?  How about this one?"  I carefully explained all the possible dire consequences of her rash decision.  Finally, as the light and my patience faded, I told her good night and good luck and went back to the house.

Stubbornness, like crankiness, appears to be contagious.  The day before, Inga had refused to come in to be milked.  Yesterday her bag was so full she had a hard time trying to lie down, but when it was her turn to get on the stand, she would not.  Inga would either ignore me completely or come so close her nose would be in the doorway, but not near enough to put her in a headlock so I could pull her in.  At my least move, she'd back away.  It's enough to drive me crazy (I know, short drive).  If milking her yesterday would have been hard, today is going to be torture.  If she comes in, that is.

The end to Cindy's saga is a happy one.  She literally ran to meet me at the gate in the morning, telling me how sorry she was and darned near stepping on my heels to follow me down to the barn.  She promised to never, ever do that again.  Bet me.  A goat's gonna do what a goat's gonna do.  Deal with it.

Just Looking

I looked around yesterday at all that needs doing here.  That's it.  I just looked.  Time in the barn was shortened because Inga and Esther opted not to come in and I was disinclined to do more than perfunctory coaxing.  I did have to resettle the milking stand.  Usually, it is quite apparent from the tilt that the underground workers burrowed under one of the legs; this time the whole darned stand had dropped four inches.  I quickly figured this out when I realized I was almost sitting on the ground and my knees were up under my chin.

Unlike the legs on those skinny, ultra-tight, shrink-wrap jeans that seem to be in vogue now, the legs on bibbies are full and loose.  I'll take comfort over style any day; however, it seems they leave one vulnerable to a sneak attack.  As my back was turned, bending over weeding, a mosquito flew up the pants leg and bit me on, how to put this delicately, on my sit-down, my bum, my (as Forrest Gump would say) butt-ock.  For someone allergic to mosquito bites, this is not prime territory for an attack; certainly not an itch one could scratch in public.

As if that weren't enough to make me feel like a hick, reaching into my pocket to pay for a haircut, the bills came out with a handful of alfalfa bits sprinkled all over the counter.  Good grief.  No wonder I seldom leave home.

Having taken a full day for R&R, I'll have to do more than just look today.

Think I Was Kidding?

Did I mention I have a weed problem?  This little patch between the feed barn and the hen house is just the tip of the (green) iceberg.  Having ridiculed myself in print, it was time to quit procrastinating, gird my loins and begin the attack.  The first problem was starting the weed-eater.  I'd had it overhauled last fall and the nice man shortened the pull rope so I'd have a better shot at getting it going.  The old rope was so long it must have been designed for a tall man with arms the length of an orangutan's.  Even so, after a winter season of sitting idle it took, oh, forty or so pulls before the danged machine even coughed.

Just about the time I was panting and ready to give up, the engine caught, blew out a cloud of white smoke, and roared to life.  (Drat.  It was going to be such a plausible excuse to put off the job.)  My weed-eater is on wheels and the size of a small lawn mower, supposedly easy to use.  Not.  I wimped out after clearing this one small area.  My hands went numb from the vibrations and my shoulders just gave out from horsing the machine up the slope.  I checked the time and it was, indeed, beer-thirty.

I think the appropriate term is "job security."  There is probably an acre of weeds around the chicken pens and down the slope that I cannot mow with the lawn tractor.  ("Lawn" makes me laugh.)  I'd like to ignore the whole thing, but the weeds won't stay green long and will constitute a fire hazard when dry.  I must and will make small forays, but not today.  Today, I hurt.  I'm not kidding.

Need A Reason?

I am a champion procrastinator, but my next-best talent is rationalizing.  I can make up a really good reason to do or not do just about anything.  Looking at the weeds growing taller and taller by the day  (Bessie Anne is lost to view when she goes down the hill) and knowing I must get the weed-eater going, I decided that I should mow the side yard instead.  After all, I had been yerping about TG not moving the fallen limbs and not being able to mow there and since his last visit, I'd lost that excuse.  As extra penance (and a further delaying tactic), I also mowed the back yard.  I was going to mow the lower side yard too, but it was covered with lupine and...well, hmm, it didn't seem right to destroy wildflowers.  Sounded to me like a reason to quit right there.

Most of the day was shot watching "Ghandi," a movie I'm sorry to say I'd never seen.  With all that is going on in the world these days, it was healing to see a person who taught tolerance for everything but injustice.  The older I get, the more I appreciate history.  Age has given me a better perspective, I think.  And I learn things I did not know; for instance, how Pakistan came to be a country, until I watched "Ghandi."  I actually remember listening to the voting results when Israel became an independent state, but Pakistan slid under my radar.

Watching an informative movie, a movie so long that it required an intermission, was a good reason not to go out and weed-eat or mow until late afternoon.  See?  It's easy.

Back Me Up

 I didn't exactly lie when Frank wanted to know where his missing jungle had gone, I just shrugged my shoulders and gave him a blank look.  I'd waited until he was napping in the house to go out and pull weeds, and would prefer not to have to make a full confession.  Not willing to give up his game, Frank hid under the barberry bush in the falling-apart barrel, sure he could not be seen.

There are plenty of weeds left to pull, but at least the walkway looks more like a walkway, if you don't count the marjoram, thyme, and yarrow spreading out.  I really have to fire up the rolling weed-eater, but I keep putting it off.  While I love to mow with the little tractor, I hate the weed-eater.  Any excuse is a good one to delay dragging it out, but I'm running out of excuses.

Pearl was off somewhere doing cat things and Frank had no playmate.  Bess and I were sitting on the porch in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, so Frank pulled up a chair and joined us.  Not as much fun perhaps, but we were better than nothing.

During morning chores, it was Sheila and Cindy battling it out.  I'm seeing a common denominator here.  Is Sheila vying for Queen of the Herd?

David, the Animal Control Guy, stopped by in the afternoon.  (I hadn't called him.)  Turned out he wanted to know if I knew anyone who had weaner pigs for sale.  As it happens, I do, and I gave him a phone number.  Amazing how this kind of information gets around.  I always get a chuckle when I get a call for the Goat Lady from someone who got my number from somebody who knew someone who knew I'd have milk for sale.  The farm grapevine is alive and well.

While I am perfectly willing to share most info, I'd rather Frank not learn who ruined his playground.