My cousin tells me I am livin’ the dream…
Why, then, do the goats insist
On pooping in the water bucket?
Not the half empty one.
The freshly washed and filled one.
If I seem to stoop these days
Perhaps it is because
I have done a daily pasture stroll
Looking for suspect fecal matter.
Head down, eyes scanning the ground,
Watching butts of suspect sheep
Summer’s hot, wet and swampy weather
Gave the parasites a field day and my sheep the runs.
I did not ever think
I would ask a friend
To help me wash and trim a sheep’s butt…
But parasites make you do crazy things.
Fortunately, I have crazy friends.
We’ve beat the worms,
At least for this year.
They’ve been frozen out for now.
Fox scat
The stoop might come from the inspection of scat,
Left by fox and coyote and bear.
Jura, the sheep dog, and the fox are pissing and defecating
For dibs on the farm road.
As winter approaches
My constant companions
And I tuck the sheep in shelter at night
I am back to cleaning sheds.
My manure fork and I, we spend a lot of time together.
At the moment, it is cleaning times three.
Once for the goats and the ewe lambs.
Once for ram number one and his girls.
Once for ram number two and his posse.
My boots, never a paragon of cleanliness
Barely show their tread.
The dogs in my classes
Find me an irresistible sniff.
There are days when it seems
Like all I do is shovel sh*&t,
Or move it to the compost pile,
Or spread it on the fields.
Who would think
That my favorite farm machine
Would be a manure spreader?
In a couple of passes, it makes all that sh*&t disappear.
And then there is the dog, Rose,
Who by any other name,
Would still smell like manure
If she gets an opportunity to roll in some putrid stuff.
Joe is such a neatnik
I have to admire Joe.
Llamas are the fastidious creatures of the farm.
He picks a spot and makes a pile.
Tidy guy, he would never poop in his water bucket.
I wonder if he would have a discussion
With the goats if he could.
“Really, please, look at yourselves.
No need to make a mess.”
Goats’ idea of neatness
And now that winter comes, I turn my attention
To the long neglected wool from spring.
I can not escape the dung.
Soon to washing but first to picking out that dried crud…
Of course, all that dung, shit, manure, dingleberries, scat, crap
Or whatever you call it
Will make the pastures green next spring.
And we will start the cycle over.
There’s a farmer
That claims that good livestock farming
Is really grass farming.
Maybe, it is just the art of spreading sh*&t around.
Livin’ the dream? maybe…
On another note at the farm.
The new barn cats, still confined to the barn,
are adjusting well and soon will be allowed out.
Which reminds me, I need to clean the litter box.