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.