On my drive home yesterday, I saw a goat that could have
been mine for the taking. He’d escaped
his fence (as I’m given to understand goats do) and was hitching a ride next to the
road.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t a terribly attractive specimen of
goathood. This was no pampered angora
fashion model goat. This was species
goatus of the genus goatus. And. And. And he was standing on three legs, exposing his belly and dangly
goat bits to the world while he scratched himself with his hoof. And all I can say is any lady goats in the
neighborhood had better watch out.
I passed on.
Oh, but then.
Then there were the wee little lambs. Tiny, fluffy, huggable black and white
darlings. Just the right size for
scooping up and tossing in back of my car.
And they were frolicking!
The trollops!*
Alas, they were not weaned. And I know how much work and how little sleep is involved in bringin’ up
babies. In my rash youth, I have raised
a goodish many baby birds and suchlike. Now that I must work for my yarn, I am not prepared to make that
commitment. Nor am I prepared to sling
a fully grown, nursing mama sheep over my shoulders like the shepherds of old
and bodily carry her off.
Well, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I suspect knitting with a bad back would be
torture! (Notice I don’t say I wouldn’t
be able to knit with a bad back!)
Also, I was driving my mother’s car, and I don’t think she’d appreciate the sheep poo in her upholstery.
* 10th Kingdom reference. I am not a pervert.
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