The sound of the cars and trucks on the road this early morning, as the edge of dawn, is a sound that has not been heard on the creek in weeks, the sound of tires on a rain covered road. Distinct, clear, a rattling sound, rather than a spinning sound. A humming with a slight hissing note to it. Rain. Soft. Steady. Gentle. Rain. The pastures have been suffering this August past. Brown in color, crunching slightly under foot. The best one, the one I put on reserve for September, has, in many places, not even a hint of green to show promise, a hope of regrowth. I have seen that before and probably shall again. But never have I experienced it this relentless.
The sheep have gone to graze the side hill in wisdom born of necessity early this morning. I brought a doe, Mrs. Merriman, into the big barn. She had been out all night. I was glad for her that the rain is gentle, goats need the occasional shower to help keep them clean. She is an old goat and becoming fragile. She was six when I got her, and is now a great-grandmother on my farm. She is full of character, and, of all of them I am probably the most fond of her and her off-spring.
What is my wish for this farm, today? The first word that comes to mind is order. The very thing that most eludes me. It seems so simple to obtain. And would appear to be the answer to most of my problems. Order and money. Money buys order, of course. Order does not create money, but it does create a window of opportunity where money may become more accessible. I make plans. Logical ones. And circumstances often overrides those plans. What would I tell myself were I not me? How to do it? Perhaps made a slight alteration in perspective? A little more discipline? Never go from one place to another empty handed. Take
Saturday afternoon and Sunday evening off no matter what. Find a place in which to restore the soul. Every day. Polish off a dream. My dreams have become tarnished of late. The drought hasn't helped. I was injured and lost ten days this August. That didn't help. However, how many times have I written the words "Rules for Living"? And how often do I follow them?
There is a peace in the barn of late that is gratifying. Oh, it needs, on all three levels, to be mucked out. Spoiled hay is in the mow. Last years pack is on the main level. But it is silent in there. Empty of multiple demands. Only individual ones, simple. Order can be achieved there. I've not marked the rams with raddle this year to see whom they have bred and when the ewes will be due to freshen. Somehow, knowing that there shall be excellent baleage for them fall and winter has given me a sense of security. I may not have to worry about their nutrition levels. I'll be starting a parasite control program with them this week. The goats have been dewormed, but seem to need it more often than the sheep. They shall be wormed again today, and then, once more, in three weeks. The little black ram lamb who was so sick has survived. His legs are weak, but his eyes are clear. His blat is loud, and his head is
always up. Scout's twins are remarkable. She, at eleven years old, dropped a single in the winter and twins this summer. They've been in the lambing room since they were born and, for Finn-Friesian crosses, look really good.
Fly Flanagan continues on with his lessons about not playing rough with the new kitten,
Pendleton. I put the pup in the window seat in the summer bedroom every afternoon for a clocked half hour. I then bring in the new long haired orange kitten. Pendleton, because he is a cat, is allowed to race around the room, occasionally to be peeled off of the drapes, and climb wherever he can scramble. It only took a few minutes for him to decide to climb on the window seat to investigate the pup. Fly knew I was watching him. While he nibbled the
kitten, momentarily, and occasionally, his restraint was remarkable. This ten month old puppy allowed his tail to be played with, his face swatted, and, in a number of ways, his dignity compromised. In response, was patient and gentle.
At the moment, Samantha is an unwilling accompaniment to the bit of theater I am privileged to watch. I tricked her into coming into the room. Pendleton sat, immobile, on Fly's head as Sam tried to pry open the door. Escape! To no avail. Fly and Pendleton became one as they watched Sam's efforts. Sam sat by my feet. The kitten tried to jump onto Samantha's back, ignoring the menacing growls, coming from this good sized, eleven year old dog. Fly watched, chin on paws, with great concentration. Samantha turned away in afront.  And the kitten leapt into the air, full of himself, racing between the two dogs. Pendleton does not seem to understand why Samantha does not respond to his attempt at play. A tap on the ear only results in a deep growl. The kitten purrs walking around Sam's face. But it isn't much fun. Fly Flanagan is more fun. But Sam's passivity is more interesting.
We all have to get along here. Goats and sheep. Puppies and roosters. Kittens and big dogs. Skittish lambs and I. Or I could not manage the work load. This is Samantha's first introduction to a cat since Peabody arrived a few years ago. If the low rumbling purr coming out of Pendleton is any clue to the future, it will be alright with Pendleton, that is. But I'm not certain Sam will become accustomed to him. She has grown increasingly jealous, of late, of Fly Flanagan. And Peabody will have nothing to do with Pendleton. I am giving away two buck goats this week with whom I do not get along.
P.S. A day or two later. I went last night to bring water to the sick lamb in the midlevel of the barn. The light had been left on. His water dish and grain were empty. And so was his bed. I looked everywhere, flashlight gleaming in the night. No little black lamb to be seen. This morning I found him, grazing on the front lawn. The effort to keep him alive was worth it. He shall live to breed my black ewes.