Bruised Cheekbones of Victory
Milking Beezus is like milking a wild pig. With rabies. And vertigo. The milking stanchion is not quite level. On a very slight incline. She overcompensates for this by leaning WAY the other way, smooshing her side into my face as I milk. I literally had to support her body weight with my FACE as I milked her tonight. Every couple of seconds I take a swimmer’s breathe and head back into her smelly goat side. I can hear her food digesting as I try not to get hair in my mouth. She bucks and sways and kicks. She knees me in the cheekbone. She kicks over the milk bucket, splashing me head to toe and then slips in her own milk. She is not a fan, needless to say, of the milking. But she screams until I relieve her of the pressure of all that milk. She has a ton of milk, but she doesn’t want me to touch her udders. She just wants me to make it all go away. Poor Beezus. She really has been through a lot in the past 24 hours.
This morning we woke up to her screaming, not a totally unusual thing, but this morning the screams sounded a little different. I walked up to discover her placenta* hanging part way out. She screamed and flipped around, trying to get it out. She wasn’t dilated much anymore, and she was in pain. I called work and told them I would be in late, and pulled on some rubber gloves. If you had told me a year ago that I would not even think twice about sticking my hand in a goat vagina and gently pulling out a stuck placenta, I would have barfed and then laughed at you. But that is what I did this morning. And it wasn’t that bad at all. Beezus let out a huge sigh of relief and started eating grass. She looks healthy now, and I think she will be fine. Her lungs are definitely working.
*I keep wanting to say “Polenta” she has some polenta sticking out her hoo ha! Throw some meat sauce on there and call it a day!
I was washing dishes this evening and looking out the window (I’m a housewife!) and there were two young people walking down our private road. The road leads to Keith’s grandfather’s house, and ends there. Where did these kids come from? They saw me and gave a limp wave. They were a boy and a girl, about 15 years old, dressed all preppy white kid. The girl had on a little flared skirt and flip flops. They looked clean and pristine. I went outside and yelled, “Um, can I help you?” and they said, “No, we got lost at the big water tower. Sorry.” and they took off down our road and onto the main road. Keith tells me that the big water tower is a long way off and the only way to get there is to crash through thick brush and hop some fences. Those kids did not look like they were hopping fences in those flip flops.
So here’s what I’m thinking:
A) The kids don’t exist. They were figments of my desperate housewife imagination.
B) They are ghosts and they died a few days ago in a terrifying water tower accident. I will read about their tragic story in the paper tomorrow. They will be wearing the same outfits in the photo and I will freak out. No one will believe that I saw them. They will continue to haunt me until I go insane.
C) They were scouting out our ranch as a possible location for growing pot. It’s happened before. But the pot growers looked more dirty and hippie like.
I vote for B because it would get the numbers of hits on this blog hoppin’!