This was one of those days when the universe reminds me that I am in control of nothing. After feeding this morning, my “plan” was to write for an hour, then do some grading, then leave at 9:00 for school and listen to “On Point” with Tom Ashbrook, my favorite radio show, on the way to school. I had meetings at 10:30, 11:00, and 1:00.
I took the dogs to the barn for one last whizz about 8:45, and that’s when I saw the pig-that-is-not-our-pig in barnyard, and all the goats and sheep standing around the fence-line with a horrified look, like someone had just farted in church.
Then the pig-that-is-not-our-pig took a big whizz, and I realized, judging from where the stream originated, that she is a he–assuming that pigs have roughly the same anatomy as other barnyard animals. I looked around and found where the pig-that-is-not-our-pig had gotten through two fences, patched those holes, got some grain and opened the pasture fence to coax the pig-you-know-what-I-mean back to Ramshackle, where he/she belongs.
As soon as I opened the gate and shook the grain, all the sheep-n-goats darted for it. Two full-grown does, two four-day old kids, and three very pregnant ewes stampeded. The pig was still whizzing.
That’s when I saw that Clara, one of our does, was about to give birth. I waved goodby to Tom Ashbrook for the day, and got out the electric fence to bolster the regular fence, since I didn’t want the pig-etc-et-era to get back into the barnyard and possibly harm the new kid or at the very least freak out the sheep-n-goats.
It took about twenty minutes to set up the electric fence, during which time Clara went from having drippy stuff, to having a foot emerge, to having a full fledged kid on the ground. If humans were born that easily, there would be 30 billion people on the planet.
But now it was 9:45, and my 10:30 meeting was toast. I came to the house, tried to call the person I was supposed to meet, and finally got voice mail. I went back to the barn, tried to dry off the new kid, and go to school, but I had goat afterbirth on my jacket and pants (you gotta love the farm) and thought, “It’s just a division meeting.”
Back and forth to the barn two or three times, cause I’m worried about the pig breaking out and terrorizing the sheep-n-goats, and it’s getting later and later. I call and move my 11:00 meeting to 12:00. At 11:05 I’m ready to go when I see that Clover (one of the goats) is hiding in the trees, afraid to go back to the barnyard because of the pig.
I tell her about the electric fence, but you can’t reason with a scared goat. It’s starting to rain, and goats hate rain, but she’d rather suffer rain than the possibility of a pig. I take out my cell phone and show her radar images of approaching thunderstorms from Weather.com, to no avail. Finally, I say, “Okay, you’re on your own, dammit.”
I trudge to the house, feeling bad about leaving Clover, though she can get to to barn any time from where she is. It’s now 11:20, and I will be 5 minutes late for the meeting I already put back an hour. When I get in the truck, I look down and see that I’m still wearing my afterbirth jacket.
I have control over nothing.
Accepting that, I feel better.
