Crossing Guard Duty

I’m easily distracted by livestock. Today, goats. Nannies and their babies, to be exact. They must have been pygmy goats. Awash in a sea of waving green grass that reached to their short shoulders. It was idyllic. One minute, Sarah and I are engrossed in a conversation about my desire to earn my own money through writing. To have the satisfaction of buying a road bicycle, or a hybrid. All on my own. So as not to take away from the family pot. And then I wander off the beaten track.

It went something like this. “I thought you were buying a bike with that extra money?” says the girl to her mom “No. Those dollars need to be divided between you kids in your car funds,” sighs mom as she has an internal chuckle over the concept of ‘extra’ money, “Driving you back and forth, from one end of town to the other, is getting . . . oh! oh! Baby goats! Baby goats! Look how lovely they are!” Mom claps her hands in delight, attempting to count the perfectly formed wee ones, “When will I ever have my own goats? And my chickens!” Said daughter laughs at said mother, “You are so weird mom. Only you would do that.”

‘tis true. She’s house sitting, Sarah is, out in a rural area. To get to home, we pass a place where roosters crow, chase their chickens around the yard, and run one another down in competition for head ruler of the roost. Each time the turn arrives, I crane my head for a good look, coming and going. Yesterday, I had to actually stop so Mr. Gorgeous Rooster of the bright red comb and silky plumage could parade across the street with his woman. Yes, the chicken DID cross the road. With his own makeshift crosswalk. With me as an impromptu crossing guard. My excitement was such that I had to call my daughter, and my brother, to relay the humorous incident.

Now you all know. All five or so of my dear readers. SMILE. (I love you all. When my chickens start laying eggs, after I come into them, of course, I’ll share with you. Or, make biscotti with the eggs and ship you a package. Oh, and all of the homemade goat’s milk cheese that I’ll be crafting . . . stock up on huckleberry and chokecherry jam now!) So be forewarned: if ever you are engaged in a verbal repast with me, don’t take offense when I suddenly drop off mid-sentence to admire the udder on a Jersey cow or ooh and ahh over the hammy legs of a particularly handsome boar.

I really can’t help myself.