Only One Casualty
The Farmer has returned from her California trip, refreshed, renewed, and ready to jump right back into letting me do chores every day.
Ha. Not so fast, I said.
She’s now outside checking on all the animals, making sure I did, in fact, keep them alive.
All went well. The steers got themselves locked into a pen by pushing the gate closed, which I didn’t discover until the next morning. No wonder they were whining like a bunch of 700-pound babies the night before. (There is no sound like a steer’s angry ‘moo’ when he’s excited or frustrated.) The sheep are happy that the grass has begun growing, so they’ve abandoned their hay bales to rip the tiniest blades of grass from the ground.
I’m sad to report there was one casualty. One morning it was cold, so I wore my lovely wool fleece earmuffs out to do chores. Of course I quickly heated up and thoughtlessly draped the earmuffs over a nearby fence, forgetting that the steers now had access to that pen, and to that fence.
Thirty minutes later I’m done with chores, look for my ear muffs, and find them ground into the mud inside the pen. One of the steers had pulled the muffs off the fence, used them as a soccer ball, stepped on them a few times, then—shudder—enthusiastically sucked on them.
I was mortified and raced inside with the poor muffs. I will try washing them, but I’m not sure how interested I am in hugging my ears with something that was once drenched in cow spit.