So, it's Christmas

Ho to the third and all that rot.

I'm not a big fan of Christmas. I used to be. I loved it. The kids were little and Christmas morning was loads of fun. My family used to get together and cook an enormous meal. It was fantastic. These days I sit alone in front of the TV all day. Big whoop.

People complain about the cooking but I love roasting a turkey and making dressing from the recipe that has been handed down from so far back I don't know from whence it came. The stuff rocks. Putting the 'BIG' meal together has always been so much fun for me. I can never express how much I miss it. Worse yet, I'm the only person who knows how to make the dressing. When I die, it's gone. Believe me, I've tried to get someone else to learn how to make it but these days nobody seems to care. It hurts my heart that things have turned out this way.

My children live on the other side of the country. They called me on Thanksgiving. They were at their father's house, also in California. When I hung the phone up I cried. Not only did Greg have our children there but he also had the spouses at his house. I cried because I will never have that gathering happen to me. I cried because I miss them so much and I cried because I was so goddamn jealous of Greg.

To top off this joyous holiday, my neighbor died. He couldn't have been 40 yet. I'm sure the heart attack was somehow related to the drugs he enjoyed on a daily basis. I used to worry his small children would wander into the meth lab he had set up in the out building and blow us all up. He was a nice enough guy to chat with and I do feel sorry for his children (all 6 or 7 of them with I don't know how many women) because Christmas just isn't going to be the same for them. To top that off, instead of the screeching from next door I've become accustomed to (our houses are not close, the fights were LOUD and usually followed up in nine months with another kid) I am now forced to listen to three harpies fighting over where to bury the guy. Seriously, an ex-wife wants him buried in the plot next to hers. He's been married to the current wife for nearly 10 years and yet his ex-wife wants him buried next to her? Welcome to Screwtown. (shaking my head because I've been here all my life and this shit still flips me out) His mother has spaces all ready to go for herself and all her sons. I suppose she figured they all wanted to form a circle around Mom in the afterlife. Kinda weird if you ask me. But even all that isn't as weird as the widow planning to bury him - wait for it - next to the other dead husband. Yep, this is the second husband to die on her. Maybe she plans to plant herself between the two of them. Either way... c.r.e.e.p.y.

Another fine how do you do happened yesterday. Hubby has been laid off again. Oh boy. Starting off another year on unemployment. I had hoped to use the tax returns to build a porch because the steps to the trailer are caving in and my old ass is going to take a header very soon if it isn't repaired. Instead I will be taking the steer and the hog to slaughter so the freezers will be full of food. I suppose when the steps cave in I'll hang a rope so I can pull myself up and into the door.

I have always been poor and I've always been white, but I was never poor white trash until I got tangled up with this bunch. In my next life I plan to pay more attention to the choices I make.

Well, the clock just turned over and it's officially Christmas. I will still get up way before daylight and trudge out to start chores just as soon as I can see what I'm doing. I haven't had a holiday in years. Nobody ever says 'Hey, sleep late and I'll do the chores'. Not on Christmas or Mother's Day or my birthday... never. Maybe I'll go grocery shopping tomorrow. I've put it off as long as I can because I didn't want to fight my way through all the crazy people.

This place has taken all the celebration out of me. Time for a beer.

Sweet Tooth

Have you heard of Amish Friendship Bread? It's been going around here for years and the stuff is fucking delicious. I have no idea whatsoever why the Amish are in any way connected to the making of this bread but that's what it says on the mass printed recipe I have so by gods it's Amish. Deal with it.


The day you bake this bread -which by the way makes two loaves so you had better be hungry - you will have enough starter left over to give to two friends and keep one for yourself. If you have plenty of friends then finding two every ten days to give starter to will be no problem. I have very few friends and none of them live close to me so it presents a problem. The two starters I'm supposed to give to friends is unceremoniously dumped into the slop bucket and fed to my hog. The starter I keep is put into a jar and wrapped with a dishcloth. I don't know why I wrap it. I wrap my kefir so why not wrap the bread starter? Besides, it looks much better to have jars wrapped with decorative dishcloths than to have them sitting around filled with fermenting god knows what. Don't you think?

After the jar with the starter is set back out of the way, the rest of the ingredients are added to the bowl and mixed to utmost perfection. Of course it's perfect. We are talking about me after all. Then it's poured perfectly evenly into loaf pans and baked for exactly one hour. OMG! Talk about making the house smell like heaven! Nothing like cinnamon to make life worth living.


Once the bread is out of the oven and placed on a rack to cool, the only thing left to do is sit quietly for an hour - 30 minutes - 20 minutes- 10 minutes - oh fucking go ahead and eat it already! Big pats of melty butter all over it! Absolutely to die for! If you want the recipe and some starter let me know. It's sinfully delicious.

By the way, that's my Potbelly Tess in the picture. When I'm sick of eating this stuff she happily finishes it off for me.

Winter's a-Coming Dammit

I used to love winter. Wait a minute, back up. Maybe I didn't so much 'love' winter as simply tolerate it better than I do now. Well, even that isn't the truest of statements. Let's say I liked winter more than brussel sprouts but less than double chocolate chip ice cream. Whew, now that that's established we can move on. Happy about that aren't you?



Way back in the day I worked for NCDOT and loved it. If a person could have a relationship with a dump truck then I had one with mine. Her name was Sapphire. She was a five speed, automatic PTO, sunshine yellow hunka hunka burning love. Nothing made me happier than cruising along in my dump truck hauling dirt and debris away from a worksite or loads of gravel to roads being repaired. Color me in heaven. The only thing better was when it snowed. I would tremble in ecstasy. My boss would shake his head and call me politically incorrect names. I didn't care. Bring on the snow. From 8:00 pm to 8:am I drove my route spreading salt and sand and pushing snow with glee. I loved watching it arc gracefully off the plow, sending inadequately mounted mailboxes sailing into the air. That was an extra special treat. Sometimes I would stop in the middle of the road and have a cigarette.



There was an all-night store near the interstate where I would stop for a cup of coffee every time I passed by. I used to joke that I didn't know if it was the caffeine that kept me awake or having to pee all the time. One winter there was a nice young man who would give my coffee to me every time I stopped. I always thanked him because I truly appreciated it. I could put away a lot of coffee on those nights. Like me that young man worked a second job (I delivered pizza on the weekends) and I saw him at another stop-and-shop during the summer months. It took me a while to recognize him because, well, I'd never seen him while I was totally conscious. Once I realized who he was I told him how grateful I was for all the coffee he had given me during the course of that particular winter when I had often worked weeks at a time without a day/night off. He smiled and told me he had been afraid to do otherwise. Gee, thanks dude.



Last year we had snowfall that broke all kinds of records. I would look out at all that snow with a heavy heart. I miss my snowplow. I miss cruising along in the middle of the night, just me and my truck and the late night disc jockeys. Yep, those were the days. Snow isn't nearly as much fun as it used to be.

Great Accomplishments

With all the little children running around lately it seems I am in the midst of potty training more than I care to be. Lily pretty much trained herself while her younger sister Laney is a bit more challenged by the whole thing. Still, she's trying and that's all anyone can ask of a two year old.

I've just started keeping my nephew Dewey a few days a week so we're finding our common ground with the potty training thing. He's coming along quite nicely. If only I could figure out how to explain 'hold your penis and watch where you're aiming'. It ain't like I can teach by example.

To make things more interesting and to hopefully encourage Laney to go potty by herself (instead of having me take her for mandatory pee breaks every hour) I have invented the "Clean pants happy dance". You can sing-song 'clean pants happy dance' anyway you want to. Around here it varies from Buddy Holly tunes to Klingon opera. The dance should suitably match the tune. (Have you ever tried to dance to Klingon opera? Go ahead. I dare you.) The happy dance has become so popular than anytime someone in this house takes a pee it's a potty training production of "Annie". Yep, making peepee in the potty is a really big deal around here.

A couple of days ago the girls were here and we were messing about like we always do. You know, disco dancing in fairy outfits and shit like that. I try to sneak off to the bathroom to do my thing because like all young children, the girls are fascinated with the bodily fluids of everyone they know and most everyone else too. Sometimes I try to remember what it was like to go to the bathroom by myself. I sat down on the toilet and just as I started to pee Laney came in. Her little face lit up like sunshine. She ran to me and wrapped her little arms around my neck so tightly I thought she would choke me. In between the kisses she was smothering my face with she said brightly "You made tinkles in the potty!!!" I've never had anyone be so proud of me for anything but suddenly, the most important accomplishment of my life was taking a piss.

They say you get what you give. I hope I've made Laney feel half as good as she makes me feel because getting that much love is AWESOME!

When Life Sucks

I'm out of pain meds. It sucks when the arthritis targets everything from my earlobes to the joints in my toes.

10:30 go to bed

11:00 get up and put heating pad that Marvelous Maggie made for me into the nuker.

11:02 go back to bed and wrap heating pad around whatever it reaches that hurts.

11:30 get up and turn TV on.

11:33 put heating pad back in nuker.

11:35 tune into Letterman and wrap heating pad around me.

11:37 revel in the fact that Robert Downey Jr. is on Letterman

12:00 finally made it through Letterman's obligatory shit to RD Jr. He's wonderful.

12:15 tuned to CSI:NY on USA

It is now 1:52 a.m. and I'm finished with the bottle of wine. I hate being drunk on a normal day but I especially hate being drunk when it doesn't accomplish the target goal of getting rid of the pain.

Maybe later I will go into how much it hurt when my sister gave up on me today when we met for lunch. I won't do that again.

I want to apologize to my mom who complained of pain and who for years I wrote off as being a giant wuss... It has all come back to me with a vengeance.

For some reason my PA cut my pain meds and here I am in the middle of the night desperately wishing I could go to sleep. Lily and Laney will be here in 3 hours. I will be totally crazy in pain when they get here and will not be able to deal with them with any sort of patience. I'm sorry babies. I love you. Honestly I do.

They think I don't love them. I wish I was dead. For a thousand reasons, I wish I was dead. When you're dead the pain stops, right? Please tell me the pain stops. I don't know how much longer I can take it.

Ah, the Good 'Ol Days

It feels like forever but it's only been 18 months since Hubby lost his job. Hubby builds bridges and he's damn good at it. You would never know it from the shit he slaps together around here. Every single building/shed that acts as a feed room/stall/barn is collapsing in on itself. This place is a health hazard. Fences are falling down and if I can't figure out some way to stop the steer from flipping the water trough I'm going to shoot his ass and bury him. OK, maybe not because I like steaks and it won't be long before Beefcake will be headed for slaughter. Hell, even the supports underneath this dump of a trailer I live in are collapsing. I'm rather curious as to how this is all going to end. Good to know I have a sturdy, warm sleeping bag.

Hubby got a new job about five months ago. It pays 1/3 less than what he was making but it is more than unemployment so hallelujah on that one. He wakes me up on the four mornings a week he goes to work (Believe me it's on purpose. Gods forbid I should sleep while he is awake even though on weekends/holidays he sleeps until 11 while I'm up at 5) and comes home every evening at whatever the time the job allows. Sure, he gets up 30 minutes before me during the week and he comes home late every once in a while but when he has time off I still get up before daylight and do the same thing I do every other day of the week/month/year/decade/millenium. I am grateful I have a husband who works because around these parts that isn't a given. This county is Big #1 in meth production and has been for several years. I could be living w.i.t.h a meth junkie instead of living between them. My big bitch is I gave up my life for something that was promised but never happened. That has resulted in some bitterness. As it is, I do what I'm supposed to do every day, 24-7-365. I never get a day off. It's the same. All the time. It will make you fucking crazy. I gave up a job I loved with all my heart to make this marriage work. I kept up my end of the bargain. I'm still waiting on the other end.

Hubby worked out of town for six or seven years and it was wonderful. It is probably the reason we haven't killed each other before now. He came home on Friday night and left on Sunday night. It was a dream come true in more ways than one. You see, I have learned to like being alone. I like sitting quietly in front of the TV and crocheting my hard little heart out while a glass of wine or a cold beer sits on the table beside me. When Hubby is here he talks incessantly about everything in the universe I care absolutely nothing about. Would you want to hear all about how Hubby is the be all-end all of construction and how so and so working his first job in construction made a stupid mistake? I don't like making fun of people or using them to make me feel better about myself (unless it's the women on People of WalMart whose asses hang out of their too short shorts but that's only while I'm here by myself and never something I talk about.) I have never met the people Hubby works with and I don't want to so why would I give a shit about what they say all day? That coupled with Hubby's commentary on why he is always right and everyone else is always wrong (as well as the fact that nearly every word out of his mouth is a lie) pushes me to press the volume button on the remote and hope he gets the hint. He never does.

If I could only go into why I don't pack my few clothes, hit the road and never look back you might understand. I used to hear/read stories about women who took shit from their husbands but never left. I used to boldly announce that they must like it because they stayed with the bastards. I am not suffering physical beatings but the mental and emotional abuse can be just as painful. Hubby follows me through the house yapping like a little dog. It can make you crazy. I do what I do to keep things smoothed over and avoid being picked on or pushed around. I have no place to go and no way to get there. Even if those two problems were solved I have no way to support myself. I'm stuck here until one of us dies. At this point, I don't care which one of us goes first.

Tonight it is rainy and warm but it's the best evening I've had in months. Hubby has gone to Raleigh and won't be back until tomorrow evening. I didn't have to cook supper and I wasn't cleaning the kitchen at 10 pm. It's the best vacation I've had in 18 months (not counting San Francisco of course). I knew having Hubby around was a lot of extra work but you know how much time I had to myself tonight simply because he wasn't here??? Three hours!! Three hours to myself just by not having him around to wait on. I have so missed having time to myself.

He will be back tomorrow night and I will be washing dishes in the middle of the night because I have to work around his schedule. Believe it or not, he works a full time job and still gets three or four hours more sleep per day than I do. The best part is he gets his all in one chunk. I am lucky if I get six hours sleep in two hour sessions. After all I just chase toddlers, take care of and clean up after eleventy hundred animals, take care of the house and once all that's done, cook for and clean up after Hubby who thinks the world was put here to wait on him. Some day I might be able to go into the details of why I am here and have no choice in the matter. Until then, I am loving this one day to myself and praying that I get another one soon.

My philosophy... If there was a god, I would be dead. If there was a merciful god, he would be dead.

For now, it's quiet and I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Security is a Full Fridge

As I was cooking supper tonight I started thinking about a time when my kids were young and money was super tight. I know... money is always tight but at this particular moment in time we had been abandoned in Kansas by my ex-husband. I was attending a community college as well as working as a tutor and a chemistry assistant and doing third shift at a convenience store. I dropped the third shift job the day after I fell asleep and ran into a ditch on the way home to change clothes so I could get back to my 8:00 class. I didn't think dying would help much.

Hubby passes the fancy grocery store in Mars Hill that caters to the professors from the college on his way home from work. They have much better food at that store than here in this podunk town we live in. Every now and again he picks something up and that's how we treat ourselves. I cook better than any local restaurant so our night out is something special cooked in. I searched my favorite recipe site and decided to fix sea scallops with burgundy wine sauce. Making your mouth water, eh? It should. The stuff was delicious. Anyway... I was standing at the stove reducing the wine and cream when I started thinking about the time one of my friends made me (and I do mean MADE me) go to social services for food stamps. I had never had food stamps and it really bothered me to have to ask for them. I don't harbor harsh feelings toward anyone who gets them. It's just that I had never had to get them and it made me feel like a total loser. I'm sort of independent and I've always believed I should take care of myself and my children. To have to get food stamps meant I was a failure as a mother, as a provider, as a role model... the list goes on. I was face down in the mud and worthless.

I was given just a bit over $200 worth of stamps for a month. That was a small fortune in grocery money to me. I went to the 24 hour grocery so I could shop at 2:00 in the morning and hopefully not be seen by anyone I knew. It had been over a year since I had been able to really shop for food. We lived on the bare necessities. I purchased a whole chicken and the next day all I could think about was that chicken. When I got home from the day's classes I rubbed the chicken with butter and salt and put it in the oven. After a while the aroma began to permeate the house. My children and I migrated toward the oven and stood there with our mouths watering waiting for that damn chicken to brown. Nobody said a word. We just stood there inhaling. Eventually we started laughing about it but in my heart it didn't feel funny at all. That's when I realized just how fucking hungry we all were. The chicken never did get properly browned because we couldn't wait any longer. It was the first proper meal we had eaten in months. Veggies and everything. I remember that meal like I ate it yesterday.

I look back at the times when I was doing the best I could but it was hard on us. I think about all the times I feel like I failed my kids no matter how hard I tried not to. I also think back on the times when I wasn't doing my best and needed a kick in the ass. Not much I can do about any of it now. My children have grown into wonderful people and I love them. I adore them. I explain their goodness by saying they grew up good not because of me but in spite of me. They are loving, caring, hard working people who make me proud. And they love me. I don't know why but they do. Someday I would like to do one thing to deserve it.

My Ugly Duckling

A while back I mentioned a duck coming off her nest with six ducklings. There are two left. *sigh* I was hoping the last two would make it without insult or injury but like everything else around here, it wasn't destined to be. One of the ducklings is doing great but the other suffered a broken leg. I knew the little thing didn't stand a chance so I caught it and brought it into the house hoping it might have a chance to heal before becoming some predator's supper.

I set up the playpen I use during kidding season. It takes a lot of newspapers to soak up a duck's mess. Not to mention the fact that they smell horrible. Add some antibiotics to the mix and with the ensuing shits... OMG!!! You can hear the shit squirt from the next room. Before you can find a safe place to hide, the odor climbs over you like a thousand fire ants blinding you with pain that you can never imagine unless you have actually had the meat ripped out of your nasal passages with a dull deer antler. Nevertheless, I did the best I could, holding my breath and cleaning the little bastard two or three times daily until I totally ran out of newspapers. I sort of felt good about that but immediately felt guilty for feeling good about it. I need opiates. Then I wouldn't care about a motherfucking thing.

It didn't take long before I discovered the leg was broken in the joint and was knitting back at an awkward angle. Once I ran out of newspapers to line the playpen with, I asked Hubby to take the duckling out and put it down. I really couldn't imagine the little thing having any kind of quality life at all. It didn't work out quite the way I wanted it to. Instead of cracking the duckling's neck, Hubby took the 22 rifle with him. d'oh. He set the duckling down and before he could come around with the rifle, little duckling had run off and disappeared. I wasn't thrilled with that because I've gotten totally sick of the little things being eaten by the bigger things. Little duck was nowhere to be found.

Several days passed and I was certain the duckling had been ripped to shreds by a critter with nasty, pointy teeth when lo and behold, I went to feed the chickens and there it was trying it's best to get into the coop with the laying hens. There are a few ducks in there as well so I thought maybe they would accept the little one. I crashed through the underbrush and fought my way through the briers for nearly half and hour before I finally got my hands on the (enter many expletives) duckling. If it hadn't gotten it's crooked leg stuck in the chicken wire I never would have caught it. I put it with the Mama Duck who has been setting NO eggs all summer hoping that maybe she would think her five months of diligent setting on absolutely nothing had finally paid off. She seemed to be fine with it but that evening the little one was gone again.

Later I found it with it's mother. She didn't want it around at all. I understand where she's coming from. She's worried about protecting the healthy duckling and doesn't want the deformed one around. I can't blame her for that. It's nature's way. Still, that little duckling has fought so hard to survive I can't help but want to help it. Despite it's crooked leg, the little sucker can move pretty damn fast. If I can ever get my hands on it I will do the same thing I did with the last duckling I had to care for (which by the way is huge and beautiful). Maybe if I can protect it until it gets big enough to hold it's own with the older ducks it will be OK. But, I've got to catch the little shit first.

Is there a patron saint for ugly ducklings? I should put him/her on speed dial.


Update... Little ugly duckling has reconciled with her mother and all is well in ducky land. I love it when good things happen.

A Weekend Away From Poop

My friend Yvonne makes the best goat milk fudge known to man. Seriously, it's the best fudge ever. Since the beginning of time. I'm not lying. I think she does mail order if you're interested. This weekend I'm helping her sell her fudge at a local craft fair. I hope we're able to increase her income enough so that she'll be able to tell her husband to go fuck himself. He's fucked everyone else in the county. He might as well have a go at himself. Yvonne deserves better but for now she needs help with the farm as she works several jobs and cares for one toddler and a tween while useless marriage partner has drawn unemployment for the last three or four years while complaining about doing anything to help. I'd wish bad things on him if it would help my friend draw on a large life insurance policy.

I have one of the last remaining ducklings in the house recuperating from a broken leg. I don't know if it will survive this. That leg is pretty useless and I would have higher hopes if it stayed tucked up under the duckling but it drags behind and that's not a good sign. I'm not too fond of having a duck in the house but for now I really can't leave it outside. Have you ever smelled a duck? Ew. Ew to the nth degree. I'm changing the papers several times a day. Oh yeah, loving the duck poop I am... not.

Sunday has gone back to jumping the fence and meeting me bright and early in the yard. If only I could find where she's getting over the fence I could fix it before she gets hurt on a pile of hubby's garbage (piled everywhere without rhyme or reason. I'm considering a call to Hoarders. It's genetic with this bunch). I've walked all over the place looking for the tell-tale landing hoofprints but I can't find anyplace that gives the most remote suggestion where she's getting out. Sunday can coon jump 5 ft so anything under that height is easy pickings for her. (Mules and donkeys, unlike horses who need a running go at something, can jump from a standstill. They raise up on their hind legs and then spring across whatever is in front of them. The term 'coon jump' came from when mules were ridden on racoon hunts and had to jump fallen logs, etc. Mule Trivia 101) I'm starting to think my dear Sunday is levitating herself to the middle of the yard. I wouldn't put it past her to have this particular skillset. She is after all a mule and mules are magical creatures. Trust me on that one.

Best quote I've heard in a while... A half-ass is better than a whole horse. Love it. Want a tattoo but will settle for a t-shirt.

Time to fill my pockets with noms and head out to do the morning feeding. They all get so excited to see me. 'Hey look, it's the bitch with the grain bucket'!! It's not much but it's better than 'Hey look, let's stomp her'.

This and Thats

If you noticed, I've got several blogs I follow and it seems that my favorites haven't been posting much lately or if they have posted it hasn't tripped my trigger. I shouldn't say I haven't enjoyed all the posts. There have been good ones just not many of them.

Pioneer Woman has gotten so damned sugary it's hardly worth the effort but she has good recipes so if you like to eat by all means visit her blog. My long distance blog friend, Amanda who does What Not To Crochet has been on the ball lately and I love her so go there and comment on that fucking ugly turtle. If you are on Facebook, look at the pictures of her new palomino filly. My heart melts every time I see that one. My beautiful daughter (inlaw but who's counting?) Meredith hasn't done a new entry in ages. Yes, feel guilty my dear one and amuse your mother (inlaw) because she's bored shitless and requires mental stimulation. Me? I've been hanging around here changing Laney's pissy panties because she has decided she doesn't want to be potty trained until maybe the day after she isn't allowed to start school because she's too lazy to go to the bathroom. Seriously. I'm going to choke her.

Aw, shit. Not really but dammit if I don't feel like it sometimes. Sheesh.

Updates

The mama duck is down to two ducklings. Well, last night she had two. They are too big to get under her now so they are being picked off by the rats. There may not be any left this morning. If I can get my hands on them I'll take them and try to keep them alive until they get big enough to be on their own.

My little hens are gone as well as about half the banties that managed to survive the last chicken massacre. They disappeared the weekend of the fair while I was gone. I understand that everything has to eat, even foxes. But I'm getting goddamned tired of hosting a fucking wild predator buffet. I'm being haunted by thoughts of tiny baby chicks and ducklings dying horribly painful deaths. Over 60 chicks and 35 ducklings have lost their little lives this summer. Yep, it's getting to me. If this fucking jungle isn't cleaned up soon, I'm going to do something drastic. I should probably go ahead and start a bail fund - just in case.

After weeks of telling hubby that Sunday is getting out of the poorly constructed fencing and sleeping in the yard, he came close to her with his truck as he left for work yesterday morning. He said she hollered at him and made him jump out of his skin. Let's not even attempt to elaborate on what will happen if my muley girl is injured. Let's just say it won't be pretty. Note to self... start secondary bail fund - just in case. If Sunday were to die before me, just shoot me and throw me in the hole with her.

My best muley girl is waiting for me to open the gate and let her back into the pasture for her breakfast. For some reason, I really need my morning muley hug today and Sunday gives the best hugs ever.

Today I learn I am a shitheel

I had to run out this morning and do a few errands. You know the deal, pay a bill here, ship a package there and make a stop at the grocery store. As I turned into the WalMart parking lot I saw a little dog at the curb next to a sign that read "Need dog food". There was something else written but I was looking at the dog and missed it. The sight of the little dog stuck in my head... at least until I parked my car.

I hadn't eaten anything before leaving the house so I was getting a bit hungry. As a rule, I never shop for groceries when I'm hungry. I end up buying things I don't need but today my stomach began to rule my brain. Passing by the balogna I saw the hotdogs and thought how good one would be with the kick-ass brat mustard I have in the refrigerator. Hotdogs in hand I backtracked to the chip aisle and got a bag of Lay's Kettle Cooked chips that I have recently become addicted to. I finished my shopping and loaded everything into the trunk of the car. On my way out of the parking lot I passed by the little dog again and thought to myself what a shitheel I had been for not even thinking to pick up a small bag of dogfood. What would it cost? $5 maybe? While I was thinking of all beef hotdogs, brat mustard and kettle cooked chips with sea salt and cracked pepper, I never once gave a moment's notice to that dog. And then I saw the old man. He was every bit as thin as the dog. Neither was starving to death but it looked as if it had been a while since they'd had a decent meal. Despite sitting in a parking lot, they seemed very happy with each other.

I turned out of the parking lot but for some reason I was overcome with the compulsion to go back. I cranked a U-turn at the bank and drove back to Food Lion. I was kicking myself in the ass the whole way and telling myself the old fart would probably raise hell wanting money instead of dog food. "That's OK", I said to me "because if he pitches a fit I'll just take the fucking dog". I bought a loaf of bread, a few bananas, a package of sandwich ham, a large bottle of water and an 18 lb bag of Alpo that was on sale for $7. With my MPV card I spent just a bit over $13.

I placed everything in the front seat, putting the food and water in a recyclable WalMart bag for ease in carrying. I pulled up beside the man and his dog. Some goober was standing there beside this obviously hungry man tearing bread off his Wendy's hamburger bun and throwing bits to the dog. The old man was smiling and I realized he wasn't begrudging the dog a single bite. I got out of my car, walked to the passenger side, took the bags out and set them down beside the stop sign. The old man's face lit up like a Christmas tree. His eyes began to fill with tears as he spoke to his dog and said "Look here girl!". He started coming toward me and to be honest, I had to fight the urge to back up and run. I'm not much of a people person on the best of days. Having some nasty old drunk trying to hug me isn't on my list of things to do today. As he got closer I saw he had to be around 70 and didn't have a tooth in his head but he was clean as a pin. His clothes were old but neat. His hair was combed. There was no smell of tobacco or alcohol. Before I knew it, I was hugging him as he patted my back and said 'thank you' a hundred times. I got back in the car and drove off feeling even more the shitheel than I had before. Looking in the mirror I saw he had sat down on the curb, looked in the WalMart bag and was crying.

By the time I got on the highway I was in tears. I hate that life has made my heart so hard toward people. Like Mulder, I want to believe but I have a really hard time letting myself go there. It's gotten me into so much misery over the years I simply stopped believing. I cried all the way home because I can't help but wonder if I hadn't seen that dog, would I have noticed the man at all? I hate to say it, but probably not.

Rambling on...

This is Mr Tibbs. He used to be the baby daddy for all kids born to yearlings around here. Since I don't breed that many does anymore, I had Tibbs wethered (goatspeak for neutered) and he lives in the yard. Mr Tibbs is a nutty little fucker and as much as I hate to admit it, I'm right fond of him.

It's a bit late in the year but another mommy duck came off her nest with six darling little ducklings. They are so cute when they're first hatched. I love to watch them climb in the water bowls and swim around. My father in law and I are trying to figure out if we can catch them and managing to do that, where can we put them at night so they don't become supper for some creature with nasty, pointy teeth.

The duck I've been hauling back and forth has been officially placed in the coop with the daddy duck and the big laying hens. If he's still alive in the morning I'll be a very happy ducky mom.

Today I found my very oldest friend in the world on Facebook. The only person I've known longer than Shannon is my mother. Shan and I used to call each other 'wombmates'. Somewhere along the way we parted ways. I don't even know how it happened but I hope to meet up with her and get back to where we are supposed to be. Life just hasn't been right without her.

This weekend is the Mountain State Fair and I'll be there helping with the goat show like I do every year. Every year I dread it more. I would like to sit home and enjoy the peace and quiet. I started crocheting my first attempt at socks today. I could finish it if I stayed home but I would feel guilty for not going to help so I'll be driving up the mountain every morning for three days and back down again each evening to do the chores here. Whoopty doodle.

Sunday has been jumping the fence at least once daily. I think she's doing it just to make me come out and put her up. I speak to her and she dances about before making a beeline to the gate. Once she's there she stands still as a mouse until I open it for her and then she goes back to pasture. She's funny that way. I love that old gal.

I hope tomorrow is peaceful. I've been having some serious headaches for the last week or so and I could use a break.

Tinker McStinker

Way back in January, 2009 my sister called and asked if I wanted to go to a horse sale with her. Uh, NO! I hate those things. I hate animal auctions of any kind. They make my heart hurt and my stomach roll. I empathize too much with the fear I see in their eyes. When I bring an animal home it's for fucking ever. I have an obligation to them. It's like having children to me. I will do the best I can possibly do until one of us dies. The only way I send an animal somewhere else is if they leave here for food (I raise livestock, remember?) or if I find someone who does a better job at caring for them than I can do. I am not perfect by any means but I have seen a lot worse.

Kathy wanted me to go to the sale and while I don't normally go, this particular place has great hotdogs so I went. I am a hotdog ho. Now you know. I walked through the barn with my hand up by my head as I looked downwards so I wouldn't see any of the horses. Despite my efforts and because he was so small, my eyes fell upon the most pitiful sight ever. This little guy was nothing but scruff. He could barely stand. He was so weak I didn't think he would make it through the night. My shoulders drooped, I shook my head and proclaimed "Ah, shit". Shortly after that an argument began between myself and the man who was responsible for bringing the colt. This asshat said he had brought the colt for someone else and I said "I wouldn't claim responsibility for that either buddy". I told him I would give him $20 for the colt. He said he was told to run the colt through the ring. I came back with "I don't think 'run' is an option. You might be able to drag him through the ring". It finally came down to me telling this jerk in no uncertain terms that I would take that little guy home with me whether he liked it or not and if he gave me any grief over it I'd slap the shit out of him. I got the colt, for better or worse. I can be a real bitch when I need to be. Just ask anybody.

When it was all over my little guy, who could barely walk for staggering, was loaded into my sister's and her husband's trailer. When we left the interstate and parted ways I got my guy and held him on my lap in the front seat of the pickup truck the rest of the way home. I put him in a stall with some hay and water. I patted him and left him under a heatlamp for the night. The next morning I called the vet and Dr Jeff came over bright and early. I thought the little guy was dehydrated but I was wrong. Dr Jeff told me that my guy was the worst case of malnutrition he had ever seen. Dr Jeff has seen a lot of shit. It didn't give me much hope that my little guy was at the top of the list titled "Worst Ever".

Somewhere along the way I started calling him Tinker. He was so tiny and so helpless. It made me hurt to look at him. He had no fat, and worse, he had no muscle. He hadn't just gone hungry, he had been hungry all of his life. We couldn't figure out how he was even standing because bones need muscle to hold them together. Tinker had no muscle. When I put my hands on him I could feel the bones clicking together when he walked. It gave me cold chills. Tinker was covered in scabs from head to hoof. When I wormed him days later, it looked as if he was passing barbed wire when the worms came out of him. I spent six weeks treating him for encysted pneumonia. It was by far the worst rescue case I had ever brought in. He was supposed to be three months old. The farrier later told me he couldn't have been more than four weeks old when he came here. Every day the only promise I could make to him was "You won't die hungry".

It was a long, hard haul but my Tinker is still with me. He's spoiled rotten and I love him dearly. Whenever Dr Jeff has vet students riding with him he brings them here to meet Tinker. Tinker isn't worth a dime to anyone but me and I doubt he'll ever be more than a pasture ornament but he gives me sugar every day and I like it. I guess I'll keep him.

Maybe some day we might learn to pull a cart. He's at least part Hackney and he's gorgeous when he trots. He's barely two years old so that's a ways off yet. It would be cool, don't you think?

Bringing it up to Speed

It's been a while since I found the chick standing all alone chirping her little heart out so I thought I would bring everything up to date.

For about a week the poor thing hollered itself hoarse if I wasn't right there with it. Several times I held it in my lap while watching TV. I was crocheting one night as the chick played with the yarn. (It's kind of weird being a mama chicken. It's something I never thought I'd do with my life. Best laid plans and all that rot.) As soon as I put it back in the cage it would start the mournful wailing I had come to loathe. Lucky for me another hen came off her nest with some babies so I nabbed one of them and put it with the chick in the house. They hit it off like gangbusters and became the best of friends. No more yelling at me 24-7. Happy dance.

Two weeks or so later, another hen came of her nest with a couple of chicks. The first hen to have chicks had already lost them to the local predators by the time the second one hatched hers. I put the second hen in a cage with her chicks and even with precautions rats were getting the chicks. I turned them all loose except for one who was a bit sickly. I wanted to give them a chance to run. I took the sick one and the two from the house and put them all in a small cage with very small holes. They have done well there. And better than anything, they are all girls!!!

In the meantime, the second hen, who I had always considered a bit of a dolt, did a wonderful job with her chicks. She totally changed my opinion of her. Within three days she had her tiny chicks flying up to one of the laying boxes and they spent their nights high off the ground. I was so proud of her. Every evening I would check on them. Mama would be holed up in that nesting box with little chicks sticking their heads out. It was so damn cute I wish I had gotten a picture. When the chicks were about 1/3 adult size, I went out one morning to find every single one of them gone. Mama chicken was missing a shitload of feathers where something had attacked her. Bless her heart. Just goes to show that no matter how hard you try around here, this place will stomp the shit out of you.

A week ago I started letting the chicks in the cage out during the day and putting them up at night. They have been good about going up until last night. I guess they've decided they are all grown up and are literally flying the coop. All three flew up to a high point in the feed shed and I couldn't reach them without climbing a ladder. I bid them all good night and hoped it wasn't goodbye. I am pleased to announce that all three chicks were running around the yard this morning. We'll see how long that lasts. I am wishing them all the best.

It's my Speciality

The other day my mom called and asked if I would make an appointment with the gynecologist for her. At her age I don't know why she needs a twat doctor but I said I would call. I asked what her problem was just in case it was something she could see her regular doctor for. My mom tells me her uterus hurts. Hmmm.

"Ma" I said, "You don't have a uterus". She said "I know".

"So if you know you don't have a uterus, tell me why it is you think your uterus is hurting?"

"It isn't my uterus. It's my uterus hole".

"Ma, that would be your cervix and that's way up inside of you just like the uterus you don't have. Are you hurting up inside?"

"No, it's on the outside".

I gave up. Let the doctor figure it out. I was deathly afraid if I asked too many more questions I would end up being asked to see things better left unseen.

The last time I called the GYN office it was nearly three weeks before they could get Mom in so I went about my normal morning activities clueless to what the rest of the day would bring. I had the girls in the car heading toward the splash pad at the community center when I remembered I needed to call for the appointment. To my surprise the nice lady asked if I could have Mom there at 2:15. I asked what my options were and was told I could come at 9:00 the following morning. I'm not halfway through my chores by 9:00 and I was going to have the girls again so I said "See you at 2:15". I called Cyndi (mother of girls) and told her I would bring them home after the appointment. She set it up for Jared (father of girls and husband to Cyndi) to pick the girls up at Mom's house so I wouldn't have to take them to the appointment with me. I appreciated that. Mom is hard enough to deal with at these things.

Mom and I come rolling into the office - by rolling I mean, us and the walker thingie - with one minute to spare. We made the obligatory toilet visit and then we settled down to wait. So far, so good. We didn't have to wait long before we were called and it wasn't long at all in the exam room before the doctor came in. He was a BABY! I swear, if he was 30 years old I am the virgin mother. He was also wearing cowboy boots and I thought that just maybe my mother had lucked into the world's one and only gay gynecologist. That was until I noticed he was also wearing some sort of khaki slacks with cuffs and those slacks appeared to be an inch or two too short. I figured he might not be gay after all because no self respecting gay man would be caught dead in that outfit. I'm still on the fence about it.

The doctor started poking around Mom's nether regions, clearing away the cobwebs and such as he asked her what was hurting. Mom started telling him it was her uterus. The conversation that ensued was almost verbatim to the one she and I had the day before. Brave baby doctor was already positioned between Mom's legs staring at things I wanted no part of. He asked Mom to point to the painful area, she did and he delared it to be her vulva. He also said he had no idea why it was causing her pain because he had previously treated her for several things that obviously weren't causing the pain. This is where it gets weird. The lovely young doctor began telling my mother about doctors who specialize in - wait for it - vulvas. Yes, my sarcasm meter peaked. One eyebrow began to rise skyward and I could feel the giggles beginning deep down inside me as all sorts of smartass quips circled in my brain. I clenched my teeth and swallowed hard. How do you decide to go to school for elebenty hundred years and then specialize in vulvas? Is that the only part of the anatomy this person can spell so by golly why not specialize in it? This shit was racing through my head and I was doing my best to keep it all to myself. Then the doctor said "There are doctors who specialize in vulvar pain". When he pronounced vulvar it came out sounding more like 'vuuullllvaahhhrrrr'. (If you want the full effect, wiggle your chin back and forth while saying 'vuuullllvaahhhrrrr'. Especially on the r's.) To make it even more difficult for me to keep my composure he kept saying it over and over again. I tried. I really tried... and then I lost it.

Have you ever had a laugh come roaring out of you so hard it seemed to have a life of its own? I couldn't stop it. It was a full on, hardy har, bend me over, knee-slapping belly laugh. I couldn't catch my breath. Tears ran from my eyes. I tried to find a tissue in my purse but couldn't see what I was doing. I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe at times. Every now and again my vision would clear enough that I could see my mother and her very young, possibly gay doctor staring at me. With every ounce of effort I could muster I managed to choke out the words "You're shitting me, right?" After that it was hopeless. I had no control whatsoever. I ran on about how could one possibly decide to become a vulvar pain specialist and was that really a profession? Could it be that the deciding factor in becoming a vulvar pain specialist is the purchase price of the ONE book it takes to cover the area? Is that considered a discount medical education? I'm assuming parents paying the enormous costs of college to have their 'doctor' offspring study vulvas find it a bit embarrassing to brag to their friends about. My son studies the fatty part of your daughter's cooter. Oh yeah, there's a proud moment.

The woman who bore me turned her 'mother face' toward me and gave me the look that once upon a time meant I was going to get my ass kicked. It rarely worked to tame me way back when. It sure as hell doesn't make a difference to me now. I was still laughing so hard I could barely catch my breath. I said "Ma, you can't be taking this seriously" and to the doctor I said "Is the Vulvar Pain Clinic next door to the Left Butt Cheek Pain Clinic and across the hall from the Right Nut Pain Clinic"? That's when my mother started to laugh. The doctor sat there without so much as a grin on his face. Knowing that he was obviously taking vulvar pain and it's many specialists very seriously only made it that much funnier to me. Somewhere in all the laughter, the young doctor slipped out of the room. I never saw him leave. Mom and I managed to gather our wits and with only the occasional giggle, made our way out of the exam room. The nurse sitting at the desk in the hall had been listening to every word and from the looks of her, she had been laughing just as hard as the two of us.

I'm pretty sure that somewhere in there an appointment was made with a Vulvar Pain Specialist. I'll get a phone call telling me the time and date. Be certain that I am taking my camera because I want a picture of the person who went to medical school only to play with a small, fatty area of the vagina. And the most preposterous part of it is, this person makes a living at it. I am guessing there are few malpractice suits. I would think it's hard to kill someone by mishandling her vulva. But of course, I'm no specialist.

Overwhelmed and Tired of it

Does the word 'overwhelmed' also mean 'frakkin' nutcase'? If it doesn't, it has to be closely related.

Previously I reported spending at least one day with pain so severe I was bedridden. Believe me, that never happens. I have too much to do to gimp out so no matter what I feel like, it's outside at daylight for me. I thought my arthritis was getting worse but I was wrong. That day was the beginning of a severe case of shingles. It's been weeks since it began and I am still in the process of healing. The blisters are gone but the areas where the blisters were are still drying and yes, those areas are sore as shit. There are at least two places where it's going to scar. Lucky me I'm too old to care about that stuff anymore. I never thought I would look forward to the day I would be able to wear bloomers again. I'm trying not to set my goals too high.

In the news... All I've heard lately is about a huge egg recall due to salmonella. Yep, he who controls the food controls the masses. It's a sad thing that not only is something as basic as food so expensive but the method in which it is produced these days will kill you. I love the way the factory farms preach how you shouldn't get things like milk, eggs and meat from people like me who do things like they've been done forever. New and improved production methods are safer. Really??? When was the last time you heard of a farmer with e-coli? Salmonella? I'm a walking monument to that stuff! Eggs were never meant to be scrubbed and then covered in wax. They come out of the hen with an airtight protective covering. If you wash that off the inside of the egg is open to contamination. People have become so fucking stupid most of them don't know where eggs come from anyway. Egg producers can't risk people learning eggs shoot right out a chicken's rear and might get a little poo on them in the process. I'm glad I have my own egg producers, poo and all.

I didn't get a calf this year. I hate dealing with the gut bumping bastards but I like having fresh beef in the freezer. In 2012 there will be no steaks for me. The only thing I ever buy at the grocery store is chicken - and kielbasa when I get a craving - and only when that is on sale. I do look at the price of things once in a while. How on earth do people afford to buy meat? I think of young folks with families trying to afford food and for the life of me I don't know how they do it. How are people supposed to eat healthy when the only thing they can afford is the boxed, fortified with lots of chemicals shit? One green pepper is nearly $4. Four damn dollars for a green pepper??? I'm not much for pondering conspiracies but I can't help but wonder what this is a preview of.

I saw another fox the other day. I came out of the house to a rousing chorus of cackles and figured I'd better check it out. When I got near the hay shed a fox ran out and into the woods. Dear Jude went after it but he had to go around the buck lots while the fox was able to run through them. Jude spent some time barking but I don't know if he found where the thing lives or not. There were feathers lying around but the fox left empty handed (empty mouthed?) and I didn't see anyone mortally wounded so I guess I thwarted a fowl crime. I have one duckling left out of a clutch of twelve. I'm pretty sure it's a drake and since my one and only drake is getting old I really need a replacement. Out of thirty plus ducklings this year, this little fella is the only survivor. I have him under Fort Knox security. During the day he's outside in a pen but at night I put him in a cage placed inside the horse trailer. He hates being carried back and forth every day but you know what I tell him? Shut the fuck up.

Sunday has been jumping the fence and helping herself to the feed barrels. If she were a horse I'd panic but mules have enough sense to stop eating before they kill themselves. I came home from the grocery store the other day to find Sunday with her head in the chicken scratch bag. That wouldn't be so incredible except the bag was inside a non-functioning chest freezer. Miss SmartyPants had opened the lid and fixed it so it stayed up while she munched. She had opened six barrels of feed and sampled all of those too from the looks of things. When supper time came I put only a small amount of feed in her bucket but she stayed with the hay. See what I mean? She knew she had eaten enough concentrate feed to do her so she declined her supper. Too smart. I caught her out again the next day so I tied her and cleaned her ears. She hasn't been back out since.

It's almost light enough to see what I'm doing outside so it's time to put my shoes on and head out the door. Aren't you glad Jesus was a carpenter? If he had been a farmer there would be no day of rest.

Next time...

In my last post I whined about spending a Saturday in immense pain. Well, I thought it was my arthritis acting up but nooooo... I have since come down with a god awful case of shingles. I have never had shingles before and I pray to all that is holy I never get them again. I have already told my health care professional that if this happens again I want a morphine drip and a catheter. Lay my naked ass in the bed and don't wake me til it's over. If you've never had a case of these babies, fall to your knees right now and pray you never get them. Shingles hurt like hell.

On the brighter side, the anti-virals seem to be working. The blisters that cover most of my left thigh, among other places, are starting to dry up. Just show me where to plant the kiss I'm already puckered up for. Seriously. I'd kiss the ass of Genghis Kahn if I thought it would help. I've soaked myself in so many vinegar baths I smell like a frikkin' pickle. If I manage to sleep through the entire night tonight then I know I'm on the mend.

Even better than getting better is being able to go outside and visit with Sunday for a while today. I was fixing the feed buckets for the equines this morning when Sunday's pretty faced poked into the room. Bless her heart, she had come for a visit. It's good to be missed. I finished fixing the feed pails and she followed me back to the pasture. I opened the gate - that she had previously opened for herself - and told her to go in. She went right through it because mules are smart that way. I loved on her and gave her treats before putting her fly mask on. She has very sensitive eyes and has to wear it or her eyes swell terribly from the irritation. She hates it but it's necessary. This evening she hadn't come up so I walked about halfway down the hill and called her name out two or three times. In just a few minutes she came trotting to me. I love that girl. I am going to try to get out early tomorrow and spend a little more time with her.

I hope soon to get out of my whining phase and get to telling stories which is why I wanted this blog to begin with. I didn't mean for it to be a whinefest. I apologize for that. After waiting years to begin I seem to have started at a seriously low point in my life. You know, the peak and valley thing? Grand Canyon going on here. I'll perk up soon. Just as soon as I stop itching and Stumpy stops licking his nuts... Sheesh, if they aren't clean by now it just ain't gonna happen. Stop the slurping already!

It isn't over yet

What happened to staying at home, minding my own business and drinking myself to death? Not exactly something that will win a Nobel prize but shit, it's something to strive for. Right? My arthritis has been acting up so bad it has me nauseated. A person can only take so many pain meds without wishing something would help without putting one in a coma.

Saturday was the worst. I got up at 6 a.m. as usual. Hubby was snoring away... as usual. At 7:30 I had barely accomplished cleaning the chicks (I clean them every morning. They need to go outside.) and feeding my parrot. I was in so much pain it can't be described except to say, kill me now. I didn't want to deal with the consequences but I finally decided that falling to pieces in the yard and lying there until someone found me wasn't really how I wanted to spend my Saturday so I made myself go wake the Hubby. He got up in fifteen or so minutes and I told him I was going to bed. 90 minutes later I was still listening to him complain about work, animals, whatever, etc. The pain meds were working their magic and I didn't care one whit about what Hubby had to say anymore. Not that I cared to begin with but I have to act like I do or pay the price. I warmed my bean thing in the nuker and crawled what was left of me into bed. The only reason I got out of bed that day was to warm my beaner thinger and partake of more Vicodin and Vodka. It was a very sleepy and painful day. Hubby spent the day stomping through the house and slamming doors. Why should he have to do any of the chores around here? That's what he keeps me for. I spent 18 days in California this past June. That is the only time in the past 2 1/2 years Hubby has had to do any of my chores. And yes, he was pissed off because he had to do them on Saturday. I'm not allowed to get sick.

Sunday (the day, not the mule) didn't start out much better but I knew the animals hadn't seen fresh water since I had given it to them last so I got up and dragged myself out to do the chores. It is Monday and my left leg still feels like it has been slammed in a door and should have the most awesome bruise known to mankind. My girls were here today and bless their little hearts, they want to sit with me in my chair and try to do it without touching my leg. It's so sweet to have them snuggle me without hurting me. Lily is four and she has more compassion than Hubby.

Tomorrow will begin bright and early with girls coming at 6:30. I hope my legs are working better because I thought of a good place to take them and I need to be able to walk. I'm going to have to break down and buy myself a cane. I see it coming and I hate it. This getting old shit sucks.

A Fowl Predicament

Where did I ever get the idea I could keep up a blog??? I must have been thinking out of my ass which in itself is a great accomplishment but one I would have liked to avoid. Many things come into my head as I'm outside working myself to the bone and sweating like sin. I write it in my head but it never makes it here. I keep telling myself that it's OK because once winter arrives I'll be outside less. The water buckets don't need scrubbing twice daily when it's below freezing and there's ice everywhere. Of course I have to carry warm water to all the animals but that's a whole 'nother bitch session.

Before I went to California I had 25 - more or less - banty (bantam to you edimicated folks) hens running around. I'm guessing 10 of them had chicks that hatched within days of each other. There were so many of them the hens couldn't keep up. If two or three hens crossed paths the chicks would mingle together in the middle for a bit and then separate into groups following a hen to whatever destination she had in mind. It was all well and good except that each hen would leave the gathering with chicks she didn't come into it with. As long as somebody was doing the babysitting it was all I could hope for. When I came back from California, there were no chicks and only 4 or 5 banty hens left. There are plenty of roosters (the bastards. I hate roosters.) but the chickens who actually work for a living have all disappeared.

After living here for over ten years and having many chickens all this time, a family of foxes has moved in and they've eaten most of the hens and every chick and duckling that has hatched in the last two months. The roosters (bastards) having no responsibility - like protecting offspring - just run away. The hens perish with their babies. I saw a fox in the driveway the other day. I used to think they were pretty. Not so much anymore.

Yesterday while I was doing the evening chores I heard the unmistakeable sound of a freshly hatched chick peeping at the top of it's little lungs. It is amazing how loud those little lungs can be. I had the scratch feed in one hand and Tess's feed in the other (Tess is a potbelly pig) when I went in search of the tiny critter doing the peeping. I found the chick, a tiny banty about the size of my thumb, in a shed that is currently housing two goats and a setting duck. Since I haven't seen a single hen with chicks anywhere I am guessing that a lone chicken egg was laid while the duck was out doing her daily poop. I wrapped the chick up in my shirt and went about my chores. I had to pass three hen ducks on my way to Tess. The chick was peeping ever so loudly and evidently new chicks sound identical to new ducklings because all three of those ducks (who were either setting a nest or had recently lost their ducklings to the fucking fox family) attacked my ass. They were growling - yeah, I didn't know a duck could growl either - biting and flogging me with their wings. I finally made it into Tess's lot where I was momentarily safe as the ducks flailed and bit at the gate. Did I mention that chicks are very LOUD??? When I left Tess's lot I ran like the wind. Uh, right... the wind in stagnant air spaces. I'm old and have arthritis. Don't forget that part. I got away from the killer ducks and isn't that all that really matters??? Moving on...

The chick is safely in a small hamster cage in my living room with a warming light. I say 'her' because I refuse to believe I'm going to all this trouble for a fucking rooster (the bastards). She has adopted me as her mom. When I put my hand in the cage she hops on it and peeps lovingly. Heavy sigh. Life on the farm ain't never laid back.

My Bodyguard

Five or so years ago I was driving home after taking my daughter to the airport. (She was on her way to China to teach conversational English to little Chinese children. Oh boy howdy is that a post all unto itself but this is Jude's story so back to him.) My phone rang as I cruised north on I-26 feeling sorry for myself and already missing Sarah. It was a friend saying he had found a starving dog tied to a signpost and wanted to know if I could help him get the dog into a rescue facility. I said I'd give it a go and called a friend who does foster work for the Pyr rescue folks in this area. I learned that the woman who does most of the rescue work and also funds a major portion of it was having some personal problems so unless this was a purebred Great Pyranees she asked that I find someone else to take the dog. OK, no problem. I would identify the dog and we'd go from there.

Everything was going well until I stopped by my friend's house and saw that poor, starved dog. His coat, what was left of it, was matted and looked as if someone had soaked him in burnt motor oil. His skin was red and irritated. He was so thin I could put my hands around his belly. The tip of his tail, his ears and all four feet were turning blue from lack of circulation. I sat down in the grass and started to cry. Just looking at him broke my heart. He was definitely a purebred Pyranees but I knew that the woman who ran the rescue couldn't afford the vet care this dog would require. I told John I would be back the following morning to pick up the dog.

I brought the dog home and called him Jude. As in 'then you can start to make it better' Jude. Believe me, there was no place to go but up. I couldn't afford to take him to a vet either but I have a pretty good record of bringing rescues back to health. I also have my large animal vet that I can call and who will give me help and support without charging me a fortune like some small animal vets will do. Since I do most of my own vet work with the goats, I figured I would do my best to save this dog. He seemed like such a nice guy. I clipped him, treated his skin and put him in a stall so he wouldn't be sunburned. I started feeding him slowly on yogurt and fresh (straight out of the goat) warm milk. Once in a while I would give him a fresh, just laid egg. I've heard all the stories about how this diet isn't good for dogs but I'll have to differ with that report. I slowly added dog food to the mix and fed him four meals a day. That went down to three and eventually to two meals a day. He started to fatten up and his coat grew in snowy white and beautiful. Within three months he couldn't be recognized as the same dog. The day I only fed him once he looked at me as if to ask why I didn't love him anymore. By that time he was gaining weight so fast I was worried he'd become too fat. It was a far cry from what he had been only a few months before.

Jude is the neighborhood guardian. He is large and intimidating but his nature is gentle and caring even though he can be vicious when he needs to be. He chases away dogs who threaten the peace and he goes to the neighbor's house when their children are outside playing. He hides under a bush watching, prepared to jump into action should they need him. My neighbor is afraid of Jude but he says he loves knowing Jude is there because his children are safe with him around. He guards the goats and the chickens. He lets me know when someone comes up the driveway and he doesn't let them out of the vehicle until I say they can get out. When I am home alone Jude sleeps on the porch in front of the door. I am never afraid because I know that as long as I have Jude I am never alone. He is my protector and my friend. I feed him many Milk Bones every day and tell him I love him every chance I get.

Every now and again fate brings an animal to me that fits so well into my life that I sometimes wonder how I made it without them. There have been several to fit that bill and Jude is definitely one of them. He has been a blessing and I will always be grateful for his friendship and his love.

Back in NC and lovin' it... yeah, right.

I've been home for several days and haven't had time to do much more than the normal chores. After being in San Francisco this place is hard to get used to again. It took nearly two weeks for the manure stains on my feet to finally disappear and only two days for my feet to start looking like I never wash them. Do you have any idea what it feels like to scrub your feet with a Scotch Brite pad? Try it the next time you're feeling masochistic. It's a real hoot.

While I was gone a couple of hawks took up residence and picked off most of the chicks. There were over 30 running around when I left. Not a single chick survived. To add insult to injury, there are now foxes coming into the yard and killing whatever they can get their jaws into. When the house dogs started wailing like it was the end of the world this afternoon I looked out the window and saw a fox standing in the driveway. Jude (one of the Great Pyrs) came running but by the time he made his appearance the fox had leaped into Tinker's (rescue Hackney pony) stall and disappeared out the back. A quick headcount showed one of the older chicks I had raised in my living room was gone. She had broken her leg when she was just a few days old so I brought her in and kept her in a playpen until she was healed. She was a cutie too. I could hold out my hands and she would come for me to pick her up. Damn foxes. Until now I didn't have anything against them but that's most likely because they haven't been around before. I'm pretty pissed at them now. I don't imagine the outcome is going to be good.

To top it all off I found out I'm the subject of a serious rumor accusing me of telling tales that would ruin a young girl's work with her goats. I don't even know where to begin telling about it except to say it isn't true. I have always thought the world of the girls in that family and would never hurt them. Their mother is a control freak and not so nice a person. I could never see her again and it would be too soon but her daughters I have always loved. It has broken my heart to hear all the bullshit being told. I suppose I'll just sit back and let it all die down... if it does. This isn't the first time this particular person has set out to stir shit and cause trouble. I doubt it will be the last. Don't you get tired of people who have nothing more to do than sit around thinking up shitty things to do to other people? I wonder what it's like to have such a life? It must suck.

The best thing is that Sunday didn't forget me. I was afraid she would pout and be a diva for a few days but for once she didn't do that. She ran to me begging for goodies and lots of loving. I was more than happy to give it to her. There is nothing like massaging those big, beautiful ears of hers. I think it relaxes me just as much as it does her. I would like to go riding soon. It's been a while.

I think I need to do a series of posts identifying all the critters around this place. I will put that into production soon. I'm sure it will help if anybody reading this has a way to figure out who I'm talking about.

With everything going on I haven't been in a very cheery mood so it's probably best that I don't keep dragging on. I hope things settle down soon so I can talk about things that are more entertaining than dead chickens and a friend's betrayal. Until then...

Getting Started

I've been wanting to start a blog for a very long time. It isn't that I have that much to say all the time but once in a while I do. When that happens I find that since I spend most of my time alone I wish I had someplace to say it. My sweet daughter in law has helped me start this blog and now anyone who happens to stumble into this mess will feel obligated to read it because who doesn't want to know about beer and mules?

Yes, I drink beer. I love good beer. Only crazy people don't like good beer! I can make sailors cover their ears when I go on a cussing rampage and I ride a beautiful molly mule named Sunday who I love with all my heart. I live with dogs, chickens, goats, a rescue pony (Tinker, my handsome boyfriend) and a pet pig called Tess. She's a cutie. And I'm married but we don't have to talk about that do we?

I am currently visiting with my children in California where I don't live but often wish I did. When I return home to North Carolina and back to my normal day to day routine I will get this blog rolling with pictures of the critters and my grandnieces who stay with me several days a week. Doesn't that tickle you shitless?