Farm Fresh Blog

     Recently I was at the District Attorney's office in a meeting with a prosecutor. She shared with me that her husband was returning to town from London and could take care of her child if our meeting ran over.  I hastened to assure her that his return was much more important than our meeting and we could simply have it another time.

At this point she said something that immediately moved us from strangers to Soul Sisters.

"Oh no! He jetted to London and left me with a full time job and a three year old child, HE can just deal with a three year old baby by himself until I get home!"

     And with those words, we became friends. As shameful as it is, I know EXACTLY how she feels. We love our kids, (and our dogs, sheep, goats, cattle, and horses . . .) but when the husband leaves and we have full responsibility of EVERYTHING, women do tend to resent it.  (At least me . . . and a certain prosecutor)

It goes like this:

Other Half informs me that he is headed out of town to serve an arrest warrant . . . and he "might" have to stay overnight.  CODE: "I will be gone overnight, leaving you with a full time job and more animals than Noah, but I'd rather be four hours away when I confirm this."

Fortunately I understand the code and am not too surprised when he is four hours away before he confirms that yes, he won't make it home tonight. That's okay.  I am Woman. Hear me ROAR! Whatever . . .

By the time I get home from work "I AM WOMAN" is tired, and she still has to feed the horses, feed the cows, milk the goats, feed the sheep, and feed the dogs, and do all this while swatting mosquitoes who swarm like flying monkeys threatening to carry off small dogs.

And this is where women have a shift in logic - every little bump in the routine becomes HIS fault . . .

Come home from work. The Flying Monkey Mosquitoes swoop in as I open the main gate.  Grrr . . . This must be His fault. Yes, mosquitoes blown in from the marsh must certainly be his fault. Greet happy dogs and head to barn. Open feed bin. Stuart Little the mouse races across the sea of oats. He attempts to shimmey his fat little butt through a crack in the boards. Failing, Stuart dives and begins feverishly digging down through the oats. His little butt is sticking up but he doesn't know this. Stuart is an ostrich in the sand - a mouse, with his ass sicking out of the oats. I could just pick him up by the tail and kill him, but he amuses me, so I scoop around him.

Shovel oats at Husband's Horse who is as long as the Queen Mary ship and has an ass about that broad. On way out of stall, horse rotates around his bucket, planting his big-ass foot squarely on the top of MY foot, effectively pinning me in place. He then proceeds to spin his big-ass-ass around, without removing his big-ass-foot from the top of my foot Thus . . . Big-Ass knocks me down. I land in dirty shavings and horse shit - in my uniform. There is hay and horse shit in the barrel of my gun. Oh! THIS is definitely some man's fault. LOGIC: It is his horse.

Feed the other horses. Cows are bellowing. Stalk back to feed room for cow feed. Grab  an open bag. Large fat mouse races out of bag - Stuart Little's cousin.  This time I am not nearly as amused. Consider shooting little bastard as he darts across floor. Gun still has horse shit on it. sigh . . . Decide to blame Husband for mouse problem too. LOGIC: They are his cows.

Stalk through the dark toward cattle who are tossing feeders like tinker toys.  Heavy metal feeders crash against pipe gates to remind me that they are hungry. Blame this on Husband too.

Refuse to walk into pen and straighten feeders against fence. It is dark. They are big. They are smashing each other. I would simply be collateral damage. After experience with horse, am feeling a bit vulnerable. Laying on the ground in horse poop is a bit different from laying on the ground amid dozens of impatient cow hooves. (Would then need Blue Heeler to rescue me.)  Opt to throw feed over fence and hope it hits feeder. If not, too bad for cows - they shouldn't play bumper cars with their feeders.  Blame Other Half for this too. LOGIC: They are his cows.

Settle down to milk goat. Ahhhhh peace . . .  But wait! Freakin' Flyin' Monkey Mosquitoes attempt to take me and goat back to Oz.  Goat is not amused.  Miserable milking for both of us.  Wonder how I can blame this on him too, since he is most certainly clean and not swatting bugs at this moment.  Failing in that leap of logic, go inside and strain milk.

Feed dogs and get ready for bed.  Shower and crawl in nice cool bed. Border Collie settles in beside me. Other Half calls. Will serve warrant first thing in the morning. He is laying in a clean hotel bed with the air conditioner blowing at 59 degrees. Patrol Dog is curled up in the bed with him. Icicles are on her nose.

Exchange details of our days. His day did not involve rodents, mosquitoes, or falling in horse poop. On the other hand, he is in a strange bed, in a strange town, and he keeps getting lost trying to find the police station.  The dog beside me sighs with contentment. I think on it for a second and decide that perhaps Other Half did get the short end of the stick.  Despite the time spent staring at the other side across the fence, despite the rodents, the mosquitoes, and the hungry animals, a hotel is still a hotel, and Home is still home. And Dorothy was right, there's no place like home.