Farm
life: Because boredom is overrated
Yup.
One of those
days. Scratch that—one of those weeks.
I didn’t document the disasters with pictures. Which is probably
for the best. Some things just shouldn't live forever on the
internet.
Let’s rewind to
last weekend when it all started. Apparently, someone (cough
not me cough)
didn’t shut the door tight enough and Pippin, the goat, made
herself right at home—in
my living room.
I was out in the
barn when I heard Indy, our 11-year-old Weimaraner, doing his best
Cujo impression at the door. I raced back to the house thinking he
was seconds away from an accident, opened the door, and instead of a
desperate dog… I found a goat. A big, smug-looking, white goat.
Indy saw me,
yelled, “You’re
on your own, lady!”
and took off like he owed her money. Pippin, on the other hand, made
it clear she wasn’t finished inspecting the feng shui. I had to
convince her—firmly but politely—that goats do not
belong in the house. She hadn’t been in long, but just long enough
to christen the oriental rug with both duties. Lovely. I mean sure,
the rug needed cleaning. Just not with farm-fresh fertilizer.
Fast forward to
the week, which continued the theme of “minor irritations that
stack like Jenga blocks of doom.” No big disasters. Just a parade
of little gremlins: cold, rain, mud, rain, more cold, and a general
vibe of blah.
Then came
Saturday. DH and I had plans—had,
past tense. But you know what’s great at ruining a day? A limping
sheep. Upon closer inspection, she had severe mastitis on one side.
This ewe had been nursing twins for two months like a champ, and then
bam! Out of nowhere—udder emergency. So DH rolled up his sleeves
for an unplanned butchering. He's getting faster—he’s practically
the Gordon Ramsay of mutton at this point—but it still took long
enough to flush our Saturday plans down the compost bin.
We did end up
seeing our daughter and grandkids in southern NH, which was a bright
spot in the storm. The visit was lovely and way too short—like a
free sample at Costco that just gets your hopes up. And we saw the
new Star Trek movie. Two thumbs up. Beam me up Scotty - somewhere
sunny.
But by the end of
the weekend, both DH and I were tired, crabby, and got into a fight.
Nothing says romance like arguing over whose week sucked more.
Now, let’s talk
about this morning.
I woke up to the
suspicious sound of chickens in the driveway. Not that
unusual—unless, like ours, your chickens are supposed to be locked
up at night. I peeked out the window and saw chaos: chickens doing
the Chicken 500 across the gravel, and the barn gate wide open like
someone yelled free
snacks outside.
I threw on clothes like I was trying out for a barnyard fire drill
and bolted outside. Thankfully the goats hadn’t wandered
far—probably because they knew breakfast was late and they wanted
to file a complaint.
Checked on the
two Great Pyrenees and found out they’d been locked in their
section of the barn all night. Normally they’re the night shift
security team. This time? Nope. Instead, they’d spent the night
wrestling like furry sumo wrestlers and managed to knock over a 25
lb. bag of white clover seed. You know, the $150
bag. Because if you’re going to destroy something, it may as well
be pricey.
Then I discovered
the little door to the chicken coop had also been left open, and the
goat kids—being bendy little hoodlums—squeezed in. They’d been
snacking on chicken feed, digging around in the hay nests like they
were at an Easter egg hunt, and pulled out eggs along with the straw.
Result: yolk, shell, feathers, and mayhem all over the floor.
So instead of a
nice leisurely breakfast, I started my day by scooping seeds, herding
freeloaders, and trying to prevent a poultry uprising.
And because that
wasn’t quite
enough chaos, I was also supposed to get my summer tires on today.
(Yes, I know it’s June, but up here a blizzard in July isn’t
entirely out of the question.) I’d asked my grandson to take the
truck in, but apparently sleep was more important than grandma’s
schedule. So off I went. Pulled into the garage, tired, frayed, and
hanging on by a hay string—only to see DH pulling in behind me.
Apparently the grandson managed to damage yet
another
tire and rim on his car. Because why not add a cherry to the sundae
of stress?
I just sighed,
shrugged, and walked into the garage like a woman resigned to her
fate. DH was not
thrilled with that reaction. He got mad. He also had to leave for the
week. So now we’ve got anger, exhaustion, and a goodbye wave that
felt more like a soap opera cliffhanger.
Oh—and
surprise! The truck’s had a fan problem. $340. Of course it is.
And just to wrap
the day up with a comedy pratfall, I later tried to get lumber down
from the rafters, fell off the step stool, crashed into more lumber,
turned my ankle, bruised my butt, and whacked the back of my head.
Nope. Still
didn’t take pictures. Pretty sure my dignity is in traction.
So yeah. I need a
hug. A big
one. Preferably from someone who doesn’t chew cud or knock over
seed bags.
Thanks for
letting me rant. Y’all are cheaper than therapy.
P.S.
If one more animal gets into my house, I’m charging rent—and I
don’t accept hay as payment.
P.P.S.
If you’re reading this and daydreaming about “the simple life,”
I suggest a weekend trial: one goat, an forgotten barn gate, and a
carpet you love. If you’re still smiling after that, we’ll talk.
P.P.P.S.
No goats, chickens or dogs were harmed in the making of this
meltdown. But several were strongly
encouraged to rethink their life choices.