I am a sucker for furry things. Wherever I go, they speak to me, frequently in less annoying voices than humans. Maybe that's why I actually pay attention to them. These two fellows were busy celebrating canine gay pride on the corner of Front and Market streets when I bumped into them during Pridefest, during the summer of 2007. The humans escorting them through the street festival were, however, straight.
Easter weekend of 2007 I agreed to farm-sit for friends who wanted to escape for the weekend. I knew they were anxiously waiting for a pregnant ewe to give birth. I didn't know they would provide me with a handwritten tome of instructions on everything from the exact mixtures of feed for each type of animal to a huge list of farm crisis management techniques, including many, many pages worth of lamb birthing procedures. Thankfully they also left a house stocked full of their farm- and home-produced goodies, such as goat cheese, a pantry full of preserves, homemade wine and a shitload of eggs and goat milk. Yummy.
Speaking of goat's milk, the milking process was no joke-- if their stash of milk isn't depleted twice a day, the goats can get really sick. Therefore, I had to actually get the bastards to stand still so I could milk them. I'd lure them into the milking harness by throwing a bale of hay behind it, hopefully throw the harness over the goat's neck on the first shot, and then milk away. This picture was taken shortly before the goat kicked the entire bucket of milk over.
I spent the majority of the weekend doing chores that probably took my friends about 20 minutes twice a day. I was lugging the instructions with me everywhere, chasing escape-artist guinea hens back to their dormitories so they wouldn't freeze to death overnight, having panic attacks, yelling at the juvenile delinquent goats for being such greedy little bastards, and of course consuming lots of homemade wine in order to counteract the barnyard-animal-related panic attacks. I was so busy running around I almost missed the birth of the two lambs, which took all of five minutes. I was so excited when I cut the first umbilical cord I almost accidentally cut the little dude's penis instead.
He obviously wasn't that traumatized, though, because the little bugger was standing up and ready for action ten minutes after he was born.
Luckily, all the animals on my friends' farm survived me. I headed back to Philly thankful that my own animal experience is typically limited to furry urban sophisticates such as the cat and dog.
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