The rain came.
The third time since we’ve been here. The third time in two and a half months.
Our erect rough sawn gained an umbrella just in time.
That made it a good day. But a long one.
Soon, that roof will gain four walls. And those four walls will make that place our home. Our shelter.
Soon.
Rain. Not yet snow.
Soon.
For now, we sleep under the barn.
We rise with the beasts. The adorable beasts.
Over thirty. All of a sudden ours, for the time being.
The loud beasts.
It wasn’t the dog.
It was the goat.
Suka.
Russian for bitch.
(She’s soft on me)
Making noises I’ve never heard a goat make.
Calling.
No. Screaming.
Sex.
It makes you do that.
Apparently.
For the goats, the honor of coitus falls on the furry lap of Dan Turck. The only goat tall enough to reach.
A true pioneer of the art. His solo act is pure spectacle.
Unique looking fella. His breed is Lamancha. No ears. Long beautiful horns. And between them: a pompadour.
My morning recess becomes a walk with Dan Turck across the farm. He wears a collar. I hold his leash.
There is pep in his step. Almost as if he knows.
We set him free in a barn yard of three lady goats.
It begins.
I question his choice of foreplay.
Suka’s tail wags. She sniffs and licks at his bizarre face.
He responds by trying to impale her with his horns.
So patient. She tries again. And again.
Suka has a history of not being the most affectionate goat. Hence, her name.
It changed when she had babies. Oh Gretchin. Her cuteness is almost unbearable.
Maybe it was our persistence with giving pets and snuggles.
To see her so excited. So downright randy.
Any dude goat would be lucky to have a go with her.
Dan Turck’s whole display was really getting me down.
Then Rachel noticed Belle on the other side of the fence.
On her side. Under the trough. Convulsing.
Belle. Sweet sweet Belle.
One of two baby sheep we have on the farm.
Built like a little woolly linebacker. She is one of the most huggable animals I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.
Rachel ran around the barn to the gate. I snuck through the set of the shittiest goat porno ever to hop the fence.
She was wet and cold. A bit of foam at her mouth. Her breathing was labored, so I stuck my finger in her mouth to hold it open.
Rachel called the neighbor. The vet. Farmer friends from back east. I lay on top of Belle trying to warm her up.
Her spasms made me want to hold her tighter. Petting and rubbing trying to get her warm.
I rested my head up against hers.
From there, I had a perfect view.
I watched as Dan Turck experienced an identity crisis.
The built up sexual energy was palpable.
Being presented with the puss of a goat, while all he wants is that of a sheep.
When his sexual frustration peaks, several strange noises emit from his bearded mouth parts.
Human babies, and some immature adults, have a sneezing technique that involves the tongue being tightly pressed between the lips just before release.
That sound. That is how Dan Turck flirts. He does this while violently cocking his head at strange angles all the while maintaining a gaze suggesting various manners of vile and misguided penetration.
All this interspersed with low, human like, muffled moans.
Pure, unadulterated goat steeze.
I wish I could say I find it revolting.
But I don’t.
Seductive wouldn’t be the right word. But alluring? Absolutely.
In his breaks from forking Suka, he prances along the fence presenting these slick moves to each of the sheep. Regardless of their age or present condition.
Even the one I lay over top of.
Belle began showing symptoms several days before. She seemed congested. We gave her a shot of vitamin B complex. The night before, some liquamycin in case of pneumonia.
Rachel even made a concoction of vinegar, molasses, and salt to get her some electrolytes.
Maybe it was the cold. The rain. She was under the roof, but somehow she was all wet.
Eventually we got her temperature up. At that point I carried her to a warmer, dryer part of the barn yard.
Rachel took off her jacket and draped it over her.
Belle attempted to stand several times. She kept lifting her head. It seemed to help her breathe.
I sat with her, helping her hold her head up.
Another shot of vitamin B.
Rachel ran to heat up some more electrolyte juice.
I stayed with Belle while Rachel finished milking and feeding the goats and sheep.
I did my best to trickle the hopeful tonic from a bottle of Negra Modelo.
Each swallow a small victory.
She didn’t like the taste.
When Rachel got done, I offered to help out with the other morning chores. Give her some time to help snuggle Belle back to health.
Two five gallon buckets of feed for the piggly wigglies.
A bottle of milk for Belle’s little brother/nephew Maury.
Ziggy, one of two guard dogs had gotten a hold of Rachel’s milking log. Pages torn and bleeding their ink in the rain.
Can’t forget to feed Hatchi Puss, our ever more affectionate stray.
Our hungry barn cats constantly scheming ways to get at her food. Any food. I stayed until she was almost done.
The mud made feeding the pigs quite an adventure. Two and a half months out here and I still find myself in clogs and my newest pair of jeans.
The boys stay under and around a small cabin with a stretched tarp-like roof.
Its animal occupants are bland without Dan Turck. He’s like a bottle of Tapatío. If Tapatío had four legs and humped everything outside of his species.
Bottle feeding Maury is a joy. A muffin of a little wool wrapped man. Growing so big.
Hay in the trough.
Barkle chowing down.
I climbed the ladder to press my back into the massive pools of water collecting on the roof.
Caught it early that morning. A needed fix waiting lower down on the list.
Rachel startled me.
I hadn’t noticed her walking out.
We lost Belle.
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I was looking forward to a different day.
I intended to put words together in a different way.
Our darkest day on the farm.
It is so easy to think of all the things we could do differently.
We talk about the things we would change if we could. The steps we’re excited to take when the decisions are ours to make.
More time for us. And the things we love.
The reality is harder than we expected.
Just the two of us, we don’t get many breaks.
When was the last time we had a full day to ourselves?
I walked a reluctant Dan Turck back across the farm.
He just wasn’t down to frolic.
By then it was late morning.
Neither of us felt like doing what we set out to do.
Instead, we went into town to fetch propane, cheeseburger supplies (along with a six of Negra), and some caffeinated comfort and community from the local coffee shop.
Yesterday was a cheeseburger day.
And this morning, we dug a hole.