I Need A Hug!!!!

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 house 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 explosive 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, did I mention rain? And a general vibe of blah.
    Then came Saturday. Jim 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 Jim rolled up his sleeves for an unplanned butchering. He’s getting faster—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 Jim and I were tired, crabby, and got into an argument. 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 they’d been locked in their section of the barn all night. Normally they’re the night shift security team. Nope, not this time. Instead, they’d spent the night rough housing like 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 Jim 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. Jim was not thrilled with that reaction. Apparently, he thought I should have suggested hanging the grandson up by his thumbs. 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 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, a 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.