Farm News 03-23-08

Sunday morning, after chores, 40°

Weight 210, no progress

Barn News

The bunnies have their eyes open. They aren't ready to jump out of the nest box, yet, but that will probably happen this week. Jesse, a young man who helps me occasionally, has Sally, his beautiful Red Satin rabbit, in my rabbitry. He hasn't been able to find a good Satin buck, so we're going to breed her to Bucky this week. More bunnies should appear in 32 days.

On Wednesday and Thursday Lucy and Hop goats escaped from the pasture. Few animals are more destructive than a goat, so I've been trying to contain them. Hop is now tethered with a rope, he has learned to jump over fences, a very bad skill for a goat. I called today to schedule a date for him to be butchered, but they are booked up until May 12. Hop is going to get used to being tethered over the next six weeks.

Jesse has agreed to buy Lucy. He is a good hand with animals, gentle and caring, and he has a cute young cousin who will help him spoil Lucy. Lucy expects to be praised and fussed over by young girls.

The geese, who are at Jesse's place, have been exhibiting some courtship behavior but he hasn't yet seen any actual mating. I miss them and would like to have them home soon, but first they need to have mated so they will produce fertile eggs. There are nine goose eggs from Jesse's geese in my incubator at the moment, due to hatch about April 20, the first day of Passover.

No eggs from the ducks, yet. They are showing some courtship behavior but don't seem to be too serious. I have three hens and three drakes, now, but who knows how many will be eaten by predators before I can hatch some more. Ducks are very suicidal.

The Worst Morning of My Life

At 71, looking back, I can see that some of the most erotic nights of my life occurred in Paris, thanks mainly to the antics of Solange, but Paris was also the scene of the very worst morning of my life, due, somewhat, to the absence of Solange. Solange LeCoq was a nice young woman with a spectacular body which she displayed five evenings per week in a night club on the Champs d'Elysées. Her job was to stand around, topless, holding a tray of cigarettes and matches for the patrons. She was the greatest encouragement to the development of lung cancer I have ever seen.

When I was in Paris Solange would usually come to my favorite bar after she got off work, about 1:00 am. We would have a few drinks and then go somewhere and engage in various activities which placed no burden on organs above the neck. We weren't lovers, really, just friends, and she was a very engaging friend. Occasionally, Solange wouldn't appear, which usually meant she had met someone willing to spend a lot of money enjoying a late night with her. Solange wasn't a prostitute but she was smart enough to sometimes skip me for someone who would treat her to breakfast at a great restaurant. I never asked her if she had sex with other men because I didn't care, I would have settled for the crumbs any time. We were in Paris and the morals of the American Mid-West were as alien as those of another planet.

By 3:00 am on the worst morning of my life, I had decided that Solange wasn't going to appear. I drowned my sorrow and frustration in a few more drinks and went out to my car, intending to sleep in it that night. My car was an Izard TS400 coupe, a tiny, tiny, elegant and rare sports car. It had its idiosyncrasies, like all rare cars. The doors locked only by inserting the key in the outside door handle and turning it; there were no internal gadgets for unlocking the doors. Once locked the doors could be opened from the inside, but from the outside the key was required.

The car was parked on the street in front of the bar, a very narrow street with room for a row of parked vehicles and one lane of traffic. When I left the bar I went to my car, locked the passenger door with the key, then opened the driver door, locked it with the key, climbed inside, and closed it. I opened the window on the passenger side about an inch, tilted the seat back, and passed out to dream of Solange.

Four or five hours later the sun was up and I woke up feeling the effects of a night spent drinking. I grumbled a bit and decided that only a cup of coffee would save me. I started the car and pulled out into the single lane left for traffic, and realized something was wrong with the car. I opened the door, stepped out, slammed the door closed behind me, and walked around the car. The problem, I saw, was that the right rear tire was flat. Then I discovered the BIG problem: the doors were locked, the engine was running at an idle, the only key was in the ignition switch, and the car was blocking the only lane of traffic. Moments later the first truck driver began loudly and forcefully commenting on my ancestry.

After what seemed to be hours, I realized that the right window was open about an inch. A short distance down the street I was blocking an old woman was using her broom to sweep the steps to her door. Slowly, slowly, my poor befuddled mind realized that, with great luck, I could insert a broom handle through the gap in the right door window and then use it to possibly open the driver's door. Suddenly, it seemed to me, I was intelligent, again.

After less than five minutes of trying to explain in my execrable French that I wanted to use her broom, the woman either understood me or decided to yield to whatever stupidity in which I was engaged, and handed her broom to me. Aha! I grasped the broom by the handle in my right hand and the bristles in my left, inserted it through the gap in the right window, and began trying to open the left door. That was when I realized that the old woman had been sweeping dog shit off her steps, and that much of that dog shit was now in my left hand. Being hung-over and stupid, I switched hands so that everything would be even, and then, miraculously, managed to pop open the left door.

God smiles on the helpless, except in Paris. I returned the broom to the old woman, who sniffed in disdain at the dog shit on the handle, me, and Americans in general, and I set about trying to find something to use to wipe my hands. All I could find was a small paper napkin in the gutter, but by rubbing my hands on the sidewalk and then wiping with the napkin I was able to remove the worst of the shit. Finally, I could reach in the car and turn off the engine.

Next, I had to change the tire. Sacre bleu! The spare was inflated. Changing the tire was a quick job, even though I had never changed a tire on this car before. I lowered the jack, finished tightening the lug nuts, jumped in the car, started it, put it in gear, went about ten feet, and the engine died. It was out of gas. Another truck driver began loudly and forcefully commenting on my ancestry. French truck drivers have no pity.

Bars outnumber gas stations in Paris by about 10,000:1. I couldn't remember ever seeing a gas station in Paris. The truck driver shrugged. (I had pushed my car out of the way, he moved his truck to the spot my car had occupied and was unloading it.) I asked a taxi driver and he shouted something unintelligible and drove away. Finally, a car turned onto the street and stopped behind the unloading truck. When the driver of the car had finished loudly and forcefully commenting on the ancestry of the truck driver, I asked him if he knew where I could buy gasoline. He gave me directions in English!

It was a long walk, and, when I finally arrived at the gas station, I spent a considerable amount of time trying to explain what I needed. I think the operator understood me immediately but was amused by my attempts to explain in French. Finally, I was trudging back to my car with a small can holding one liter of gasoline. I reached my car and poured the gasoline into the filler tube. That was when I discovered that the car had a reserve tank, and, by simply turning a valve, I could have started the car and driven away.

Three days later I could no longer detect the smell of dog shit on my hands.

Books

Dakota by Martha Grimes

Dakota is the sequel to Biting the Moon, books in which the central character is Andi Oliver, or Olivier, a young woman who wakes up in a motel not knowing her name or anything of her life prior to her waking. She thinks she has been raped during the night but doesn't remember. In both books she fights cruelty to animals, a peripheral battle in the first book and a central issue in the second. I recommend reading the books in sequence, just so you know how she deals with the person she thinks has raped her, which is at the core of the first book.