They say that once you have children you are never free again. I, a content spinster, have spent at least the last decade alternately chuckling and sympathizing over my married friends’ fates with their progressive phases of torture: diapers, awful elementary school friends, adolescence, dating, and drugs, the cost of college. As my single self happily travelled the Yucatan in search of new Mayan ruins, kept odd hours at home, and of course engaged in the ubiquitous drinking directly out of the orange juice carton, I confirmed regularly that being a bachelorette is where it’s at. But it just never pays to be self congratulatory, because somehow between Cancun and Boyds I acquired a herd of dependents who try their best to spend all my money, worry me to death with their ailments, and regularly invade my privacy.
Now, I’ll bet that most of you who have dogs or cats think nothing of walking naked around them. They can’t comment on the fact that your bod hasn’t seen the inside of a gym for over a year, and they certainly don’t mind if you haven’t shaved your legs. We love our pets because they are so totally accepting. Try an open-mouth belch at the dinner table – no reaction, right? And how many of your dogs accompany you into the bathroom while you do your business (after all, you watch them do THEIR business, right? Fair is fair…). I’m cool with having some animals in the house, but one has to put one’s foot down somewhere (if there is room, that is).
This morning I was enjoying a really nice warm bath, soaking sore muscles, calmly planning the day, and then I heard it. A clatter. I just hate it when you’re relaxing in the tub and you hear something that you suspect is going to need your attention, naked, shivering, and dripping. I waited. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore it. But there it went again. ARGH.
All at once four beasts burst into my morning sanctuary. Now, this bathroom is approximately 2 feet square larger than your standard airline fare so accomodating two sheep plus two of their dog friends made it really quite squeezy in there, especially once I flew out of the tub and into the hairy mix. I should have known better than to name one of these troublemakers “Huckleberry Finn”. It’s like calling a goat “Helloooo Newman” – you get what you ask for.
These two sheep are the culprits who have discovered the trick of running after cars down the driveway. I’ve nearly been late for work half a dozen times trying to lure these fellows back into the property as they delightedly nab blades of grass while running away from me, redefining the phrase “eat and run”. Some days I just drive up and down the driveway, across the upper pasture and down again, trying to fool or outrace them – not a chance, they’re at the gate before I am.
Yesterday the farmer who is doing pasture work was here with some large towing equipment. He got an emergency call and tried to leave the property in a hurry, but these little buggers kept following his vehicle. Desperate to get out, he told me he “hauled ass” up and down the driveway in his big rig and still could not shake them.
So whether you spend all day shuttling hordes of short people in your SUV to soccer games, or are regularly bailing your errant teenager out of the clink, let me just say this: at least you can get out.
Till next time,
Star Gazing Farm
A haven for retired farm animals and wayward goats