It’s hard to get a good picture of Annabelle anymore.
Most of the time, if I walk into the goat yard, a picture of Annabelle looks like this:
That’s because she runs up to me, buries her head into whatever piece of me she can get to, and stays stuck up against me with every step as if I have just spawned a woolly growth. She’s ever hopeful I will take her with me when I leave the goat yard. Back to the porch. Back to her life as a dog. Back to her blankie, and if I would be extra sweet, maybe her bottle.
And if we could go inside and rock a little bit in the recliner, she’d like that, too.
But sometimes now she tries to fit in. Sometimes she tries to be a goat.
And sometimes they even agree to play with her even if she is a weird goat.
Pepsi: “They don’t have goats like this in Tennessee.”
I went outside yesterday for awhile to play with all my animal babies and take a break from the lengthy and tedious effort of transferring all my files from my broken laptop onto an external drive. I was finally able to get into my computer in “safe mode” and access files at least. Not sure what I’m going to do about my laptop meltdown next, but I have managed to set up temporarily on a borrowed desktop.
Sometimes I want to be a duck because they don’t seem worried about anything.
Except chickens. Sometimes they worry about chickens.
Sometimes I worry about chickens.
I love these three roosters. They stood right beside me while I took picture of the ducks and big chicks in the chicken yard. There are nice roosters in the world. (And bright! Look how bright they are in the midday sun.)
I’ve found out where at least some of my eggs are going.
Somebody’s set up shop here in the goat house. I wonder if the hen will sit on a nest here? I’m going to leave the eggs and see.
Soon these big chicks and the ducklings will be old enough to leave the chicken yard for the wide open world.
The little chicks still in the brooder are waiting for their chance to move up to the chicken yard when it’s their turn.
The sheep down in the meadow have a second pasture with fresh new grass to eat and a creek to cool their hooves in on warm spring days.
They are dyeing their own wool by rubbing up against the paint on the brand new gates.
Number Nine’s growing and starting to play. He drinks his bottle and eats a little soft canned cat food.
He has sharp teeth, the better to nibble your fingers with.
And he is ridiculously cute and singlehandedly sucks up way too much time simply by burrowing his head into my neck and falling asleep there. Then I can’t move. I’m stuck, pinned by cuteness.
The kids are calling him Simba now. I just call him Kitten.
He got outside by accident yesterday. Boomer and Coco gave him a tongue bath. He smelled like a dog for the rest of the afternoon.
Annabelle: “I want to smell like a dog!”
I’m gonna have to end up taking her back on the porch, aren’t I?