I have realized that I don't have photographs because I always am using both of my hands for other things. Maybe I should volunteer for a biotic camera eye. Is there such a thing? Flash coming out of my left ear, printed shot spit out (literally) ala Polaroids? Remember Polaroids, you young whippersnappers? Of course you don't.
There is a lot going on on the Little Lucky, as usual. Having my sister living near our parents is such a blessing that I cannot even express it in words. And that is saying a lot, coming from one who is never at a loss for words, but uses way too many... it has given me the gift of time - a more precious gift, I cannot imagine.
Saturday morning I was trying my best to multi-task (and failing miserably - when will I learn?), trying to get laundry done and on the line (rain forecast for Saturday night through Sunday - YES!) Doing chores and trying to get the giant Chocolate Lab (aka Dexter) out for some exercise. It's like an actual rodeo - without the skilled cowgirl. The way it works is like this:
I reach over the walls of his stall and try to catch his collar. Meanwhile, his hard, hard BIG noggin is weaving and bobbing because he is excited! After narrowly missing dislocating my shoulder, I snag the D ring and clip on his lead. Then I unlatch the gate and.... WHEE HAW. We both get our cardiovascular exercise. I have had the foresight to move llama and sheep to a safe distance with two gates in between. Once he gets the initial hysteria out of his system, I unhook the lead and let him run around for a while. Then I sneak around and get his bucket ready. He knows his name and when he hears me call, it means breakfast/dinner. He races in the barn and into his stall and sinks his head up to his ears in his bucket. While the Hoover vacuums up the milk replacer, I gingerly set the bucket down and then race to the back and re-hook the gate to his stall. He finishes and pounds the bucket around, bucks and carries on, then settles down for his little scoop of grain. Then his little mound of highly-expensive, difficult to come by third-cutting hay. Yes, the little prince will only eat this hay. While he's coming along, my huge backlog of chores and projects make this process less than ideal, but the only option for some time. I have decided to sell him.
Speaking of backlog of projects, I decided to cave in and farm out (so to speak) the cleaning of the run in shed - the sheepies' and llama's summer quarters. So I can add clean up of barn and paddocks to my list right after I cross off 'clean the run in shed' - vicious circle, no? I have asked every able bodied teenager of the male persuasion that I or anyone I know, knows. The result? A lot of whining. Geezloueeze. I went on Facebook and asked locally - and I am paying $10 an hour, for Nat's sake. The only response I got was from a woman. I have great trepidation for the future of this country.
This youngish woman is an elder care giver who's last patient passed away, leaving her with lots of time on her hands. I like her - she is just getting into chickens and loves them - but there are issues. She doesn't drive. (WHAT? Why in God's name would you move yourself into the middle of rural nowhere with no means of getting around? She is married with a 9 y/o son. I am flabbergasted.) She, son and Hubby came out yesterday in the rain to see the chickens. It was then I was informed that, should I need her to work for me, Hubby would have to drive her and would drop her and Son off. This child, interesting as he is, was into everything he could get his hands on within three seconds of landing on my driveway. I volunteered to pick her up. Alone.
And, on the subject of children - of which I am no expert whatsoever, being totally an observer of other people's children - what is with the "I want", "I want" thing? He wanted my rooster, two of my chickens, the llama, with a stamp of his 9 y/o foot after every demand. Good grief. The Hubby followed behind, murmuring, "he's so smart, he knows ALL about animals and plants...", while his mother offered to trade him for one of my dogs. As if.
The Nuggets have been moved. And I have the 15,000 steps on Fitbit to prove it. While I am so happy that we finally got a measurable amount of rain - it made the day rather cold and damp. I had to refit the tarp around the hoophouse (wiring the grommets to the frame this time), patch a mysterious hole in said tarp, make sure that there no obvious drafts, which meant affixing plastic in key areas, refitting a door (wherein I discovered that my memory of a hook and eye closure in the tool box was pure fantasy), setting up the big BIG feeder and waterer, setting up the electronet (not hooked up yet because I ran out of light and steam, not necessarily in that order). Then I had to transport the meatballs from the brooder to the hoophouse. That is, almost literally, from one end of the LLF to the opposite end. Up the steps to the deck, down the steps off the deck, through two gates. All 23 of them. By the last transport, I was not tenderly lifting them from box to floor, let's just say.
All during this activity, I was the epitome of high fashion - torn muck shoes, grey, soggy socks (which started the day as white, dry socks), sweat pants, wet to the knees, sweatshirt, all covered with my dad's old mechanics coveralls and my favorite billed cap. Wowza! I am so shocked that I am still single.