Cold front...

 The weather folks said a cold front from Canada would arrive last night, bringing wind and rain. We have a good roof, and my animal houses are secure, so this didn't worry me, but we have a bachelor flock of young roosters camping in a calf hutch in the backyard.  If the wind is right, those calf hutches can take flight like Dorothy's house in the Wizard of Oz, sail over pasture fences and end up where they shouldn't. It was drizzling when I went to bed, and I woke sometime later to hear the rain hitting the windows hard and wild wilds moaning under the eves. In a semi-conscious state, I huddled under the covers and worried about those birds. I knew I should get up and peer out the window to see if their shelter had abandoned them. I also knew that if it had, I'd have to suit up and go out in the deluge, hunting coal-black birds in the dark of night, and figure out what to do with the poor sodden things once I found them. I didn't relish this idea and tried to force myself to sleep, to no avail. I finally gave up and stood on tiptoes to peer out the bathroom window. Much to my relief, the hutch was where we'd left it. I slept the rest of the night fitfully, checking on the situation multiple times. 

The rain had slowed by dawn. Since it was my day off, and the air blowing in the open bedroom window was bizarrely warm, I opted to do chores in my pajamas. This is a luxury that living in the middle of nowhere affords. Only the dogs and one lone hunter driving by saw me, and he gave me a cordial wave and a nod as he passed. 

I squelched across the pasture, opened the door to the goat cozy, and stepped inside. The air smelled of clean pine shavings, hay, and healthy livestock. Rain pattered gently on the metal roof. The goats know the routine. Plenty went to the gate of the milk room and waited nicely while I fiddled with the latch. She entered happily, hopping up on the milk stand and standing quietly while I dished her a scoop of mixed alfalfa pellets and sweet feed. I sat behind her, cleaned her little udder, then went to work milking. She calmly enjoyed her breakfast. I like a little music while I do chores, and this morning Carol King was appropriately singing "Too Much Rain." 

When she is done with breakfast, Plenty waits, chewing her cud and looking out the window. She is the best little goat. 

Grace, on the other hoof, is impatient about everything. She stands at the gate staring with her ice-blue eyes, willing me to hurry along. Every few minutes, she lets out a bleat. Her voice reminds me of a 90-year-old chain-smoking woman from New York. 

When it is her turn, she blasts through the gate and hops up and down off the stand in rapid succession as I get her breakfast from the bin. I have to work fast because she will only tolerate me milking while food is in front of her face. The moment the grain is gone, she struggles to get her head out of the stanchion and dances her back legs in a rapid tattoo that has knocked the milk bucket (or measuring cup!) into my lap more times than I care to count. I've learned to hobble her back legs with soft nylon straps, but she still manages to wreak havoc more often than not. It's a good thing she is cute and produces sweet, delicious milk. 

Bravo waits for me just outside the Goat Cozy. He hops up when I come out, and trots before me, plumed tail waving. I take the milk right in the house and pour it through a chilled filter into a chilled jar. There is always a little extra to splash into Bravo and Flirts bowls. More tail wagging ensues.

The rain picked up again; I watched sheets of it blowing across the pasture as I buttered toast and tidied the kitchen. The dogs arranged themselves damply, sighing over their breakfast-filled bellies and settling into a stormy day.  I long to join them, but my to-do list awaits.