My house is a mess, my job in shambles, and the dog has forgotten my name. Where to start? I remember that all was more or less well that morning when I found the middle nanny with a new baby and escorted the two into the goat shed so that the youngster could (along with Alladin) get his daily attentions. Wondering why nanny goat had not followed, I found her lovingly tending to a second new baby, which by process of deduction I determined belonged to middle nanny but had been stolen by gramma while nanny's was occupied with the new birth. Well, too late now, they have nursed and bonded, but I had better order some colostrum for the near future when Gramma births her own babies.
Which that event of course occurred on Saturday evening a couple weeks later, just the day after I had FINALLY received the "colostrum supplement" after days of the usual kinds of negotiations that are necessary to get these package delivery companies to actually deliver. Opening the package I noted on the label that this "colostrum supplement" is not intended to provide antibody. Why on earth would anybody give a colostrum supplement were it not for the antibody? ?? !! *&#! Well, the next day was Sunday and you can imagine that I spent all day in fruitless search.
The net result was two beautiful baby doe kids nursing Gramma and a two-week old in my kitchen, learning to feed from a bottle. Now, a week later, Alladin and his younger half brother (formerly of the kitchen) are gone to their new homes. The two little girls are doing great, and RITA IS A MOTHER, producing the first little black baby Shetland lamb to be born in this flock, in spite of the fact that we were after color when we started with two lo those many years ago. Looks to me like Rita's sister, Baby Ruth, will be next. I hope not tonight in this cold rain.
Sometimes I wish they would keep their problems to themselves, but on the contrary they normally wait till I show up before going into labor. Yasmin, this is her first, started the moment I arrived, and of course the excitement never stopped for the remainder of the morning. Yasmin's mother and grandmother, penned with her, tried to help. Yasmin hollered. The horses ran the fenceline. Presentation seemed OK, so I left her alone. The kid was finally born, in goat style quite suddenly (male, black with white) and his great-grandmother went totally ga-ga, helping mother (and me) clean up the baby. Oh, oh, finally I catch on great-grandma's trying to steal this baby.
Meantime M'Donna pushed her way into the goat pen, letting Gramma rush out to join Bucky in their mutual stress. M'Donna refused to leave the goat pen and that's when Scotch decided to "help." Scotch never learned herding skills because I do not want her herding my horses. She's a heeler, and there is nothing I need less than someone biting someoone's heels while I am standing in front. So I yelled at Scotch, remembered I had a towel in my hand, wrapped it around M'Donna's neck and got her out the door. Grabbed nanny by the horns and dragged her out the door. Shut the door, turn around to latch it. M'Donna pushed at me to go back in. I soundly slapped her face. Scotch rushed to my rescue (I've told her a thousand times I can handle these things). Nanny rushed to demolish Scotch (to her total astonishment). Everyone collided at my feet in a cacophany of screams, grunts and yells. Scotch ran for the car with an expression of complete amazement, Nanny goat backed off with a seriously determined look on her face. M'Donna (she's her mother's daughter and loves all smaller things) looked quizically down down from many hands on high, and all this happened in about ten seconds. Never a dull moment. I'm quite honored, looking back, to realize that the goats had included me in their family circle during the entire event without attacking ME. Poor Scotch. That HURT!
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So, here I am on a glorious Sunday morning when I should perhaps be attending the religious services of my preference. Or working the sheep who are coughing and long overdue for their worm meds. But instead I'm mending the gate which the little red car removed on it's way out into the neighbor's pasture. Using my own money, materials and time because our local state trooper is convinced that I clearly stated before witnesses that my gate is not on my property.
I used to think the function of state troopers is to save lives, property, etc., but it turns out that one of their primary functions is to determine who gets what from insurance companies. The trooper focuses the power. He/she defines justice -- whatever he/she writes in the accident report, that is truth, whether or not it really happened, because that report defines the function of the insurance company, and the insurance company is the SOURCE of the power (money). This arrangement, of course, is not logical, but it's also not surprising, because everyone (especially the trooper and the insurance company) knows that nobody has time to fight the system. It's not worth the aggravation Better time spent out in the golden sunshine talking to Scotch, watching the first leaves open, digging postholes. (Thump.)
My best guess is that something across the palm might grease the wheels of justice (to thoroughly mess up my metaphors); but you know, palm greasing requires a certain amount of tact and experience, besides being illegal, all of which makes it overly challenging for honorable folk. It's easier to just fix the raggedy old gate. I enjoy digging postholes. (Thump.) One or two at a time. (Thump.) Thinking about stuff. (Thump, thump.) It would be more fun thinking about good stuff, but right now the mind seems stuck on unfair stuff. Like remembering how I used to think the cops are the good guys.
You live and learn. The real world is full of unfair stuff. Like I bought this property and then Union Pacific put in a refinery tower that dumps its effluent (you know effluent -- that's the kind of stuff if it were solids instead of gas the law would make you put it into your septic tank) absolutely straight across my driveway. So I can't live on my own property. And every year I have some significant vet bills that relate to sulfur poisoning.
Am I disillusioned (thump), depressed (thump)? Who, me? I'm just digging postholes and thinking about stuff (thump, thump). Fencing off the front corner so the next car that comes flying through here all they'll take out is maybe a rose bush or two. Keep my horses off the road. Thinking if I move the fence back there's always the possibility that current or subsequent neighbors might encroach upon my property. Isn't there some law about common usage? Yes, that's like you ride for ten years on public lands and then someone comes along and builds bicycle trails on top of your horse trails and then the next thing they come along and run you off "their" bicycle trails because you're damaging them. Fascinating. (Thump.) Never occurred to me that cross country cyclists couldn't function in absence of perfectly groomed cross-country trails. (Thump, thump.) Of course, the neighbor's livestock if any, will have a broad avenue of escape if I leave the front corner of my property open, but that's his problem. If he doesn't like it, he can fix his own fence, which the little red car also destroyed. He's the one who said he would fix the fence in the first place, but if he did what he said it would be the first time, and this is kind of pleasant. Thump -- thump -- thump -- just whacking that posthole digger into the clay, with the sun warming my shoulders, watching the backlit blossoms on the elm tree sparkle like a flock of tiny, shiny sequins.
So I couldn't live on my own property along with Union Pacific's effluent, so I bought a nice doublewide on an acre of land across the way, and I love it. And while we're on that subject, we could mention the guy I hired to inspect the place before I bought. He charged me $60 and cost me well over $5000. Sent me a report but didn't bother to look at the house, obviously, or I wouldn't have paid near what I paid for it, but I love the place and will have it in shape long before I retire. Birds everywhere. Leaves opening on one of the little trees out front. And now I have a place to live in comfort and a place to invite my friends, and the seller did need the money. He "can't manage." (Thump.) Have you ever tried to dig postholes in Texas clay? There's a name for that layer of impermeable clay, but I forgot. (Thump, thimp.)
And so, there I was one morning, about two weeks after I moved in to the new doublewide - everyone around was at work - and I was digging postholes again. For my new gate in my new front yard. When I heard an awful, dangling, wailing scream. You know how you can tell when it's real, and this was real. A dog. The neighbor's dog, and of course at that point I didn't know my new neighbors, but this dog was screaming for very real. Something that you wanted to pretend you didn't hear, but if you care about pain and fear and honor you couldn't ignore it, so I popped Scotch into the van for safety, not having the foggiest idea what we might face, and drove down and across the road to see, and then back farther into the bushes, and what I saw I will not describe to you but I will not forget. One small pet being torn apart by four larger dogs. I yelled and they paid me no attention at all so, leaving Scotch in the van, I jumped out, picked up a stick and challenged the pack. Which by the way is a somewhat scary thing to do when they are not running the other way. I do not want to meet that bunch out in the woods alone (again). But, three of them finally left, and the fourth backed away when I reached striking distance.
Well, to make a long story short, this tormented little helpless dog followed me back to my van, begging for help with eyes and tail, and asking to be picked up into my van even though she was in pain. What else was there to do? If I got in my van and left her there and drove away, this puppy's children would come home from school this afternoon to find her spread all over their lawn, so I carried her to the vet school. Unlike her usual self, Scotch made room in the van. The vets admitted the little dog on a good samaritan basis; she smiled at them and licked their hands as they worked to save her; and they cut their regular fees by half and half again and more in order to help this children's pet.
Yes the neighbors finally did came home, no the dog didn't make it, yes it looks like they're going to stick me for the bill. (Thump.)
Am I disillusioned? Not really. I thought about that possibility when I decided there was no honorable choice but to help the dog. Some things you do because you can't not.
They're in church this morning, those neighbors, singing for their friends. Out here (thump) by the gate (thump) the mockingbird is singing his territorial serenade from the top of my cedar tree (thump) that grew up double after someone stole the top of it to use in their celebration of the birth of Christ (thump, thump). And who do you think comes by but the God of the Highway (thump). You remember, he who decided this curve is safe to drive at 70 mph? He stopped at the place near my gate which is more or less where all these people keep running off the road. (You should have seen the one that flipped completely over end for end. Just like the movies except quicker than you can think.) The GoH pulled out the battered reflector post that marked the corner. Then He put in a white stake on one side of the road and another white stake on the other side of the road. Like, we don't know where the road is? None of those people ran off the road because they didn't know where the road is -- they ran off because this curve looks like it is safe to drive fast and it's not safe to drive fast. If you fix the road so it's safe to drive fast it still won't be safe to drive fast because of low visibility and high numbers of people entering the roadway. Knowing that (which is obvious if one drives around the curve a couple of times from each direction) wouldn't it perhaps make good sense for the GoH to install, rather than two white posts, a sign that says something like "SPEED LIMIT 45 MPH!" Too complex a thought, perhaps?
But are we surprised? (Thump.) Are we depressed? (Thump.) Are we upset? (Thump.) Are you kidding? People do what they are. Did you expect them to do what they are not? So long as we ourselves participate with honor, we will from time to time become victims of stupidity, arrogance, fear and accident. We could spend our lives showing all those people who they are. But they already know who they are and we would then be breathing in and breathing out within the circle of their pain. Victimizing ourselves. That's what they want -- they want to somehow dump on us their self-imposed pain. There's a limit, of course, to what an honorable person will or should put up with from pain-filled friends and loved ones and strangers. (Thump, thump.) But we haven't got there yet (thump), and in the meantime I'm having fun digging postholes and watching those tiniest of tiny blue flowers that are the very first glory of God's Springtime. Scotch is sleeping under the pickup. Life is what it is. If you expected fair, then that was your mistake.
Photos © 1999, Lynn Lamoreux
Created by Lynn Lamoreux and Julie Wright.