It rained, no snow but big slushy droopy mushy plops that looked like they had been hurled out from the murky clouds by a vast muddy shaking dog. And it was cold. Wet and cold.
A wintry day. By afternoon I decided to throw down some extra straw and let the animals into the barn.
Sheila and the piggies have access to their barn bedrooms all the time because of their exemplary toilet habits so they just got extra straw. Sheila was quick to cuddle into her bed.
Mama brought her girls right into the center of the barn where it is the warmest, she had had enough of the rain. It was very cold rain with a mean wind. So I let her talk me into it, she has pigs on two sides but she does not mind pigs. Mama is a senior so she gets special treatment. It is like when you are travelling with a senior citizen so you all get to board early. So Mama brought all her daughters in with her.
Hairy MacLairy was in a field with access to the rat house for shelter. I cannot lock him inside in the barn, as you know he head buts, yes RAMS, gates and doors and walls until he literally breaks out.
Daisy refused to come in to the barn, point blank. Put her foot down with a delicate stomp. John had come home from work and wandered into the barn and the only time she ever sees him in the barn and calling her in too, there is a needle involved. She hates injections as you know and has the memory of an elephant. So she would not come in until he had gone.
She made sure that the coast was clear before she came into the barn. She was very spooked. But watching Queenie eat all the hay proved too much for her. She is a most unusual cow very clever for a bovine but when it comes to food she is a pig.
The Big Dog did not even come off the verandah yesterday. Too cold. He stayed under his blankets. I need to find him another coat. He wore last years one right out. He likes to have his head covered with the blanket, but with an eye exposed. This is how he likes to be wrapped up. He won’t come inside. He hates the inside. He is very old, at least 14 now I think, he was here with John before I came back from London seven years ago. So he is allowed to do whatever he likes too.
But inside the house the big room was warm as newly popped toast. Lamb chops were cooking on the woodstove, the stock from yesterdays chicken was simmering, after dinner I would put my little shiny pot of fresh raw milk, from down the road, on the stove – break in a few lumps of chocolate and add a nice tot of dark rum and sit down to look at my photographs of the day. The thing with cooking on the woodstove is that it is going to take some time, so I can relax and let it all go slow. Winter is coming.
I hope you all have a lovely day.
your friend on the farm,