Calf Races

It’s Teen Pact week for Buddy!

While he is at the Iowa State Capitol running for office, passing legislation, playing ultimate Frisbee and hanging out with friends – I’m doing his chores at home.

So of course – a cow gets out.

I spotted it eating grass in the ditch on Tuesday. My first response was to call Buddy – who would have grabbed his boots and coat and calmly taken care of the situation.

But then I remembered that he was gone.

So I called Angel Girl – who thankfully had the day off from work.

“Can we do this ourselves?” I asked.

Angel Girl took one look and said, “It’s just a calf – no problem – I got this.”

“Do you need my help?”

She shrugs, “You can come out if you want to.”

By the time I went to the bathroom (at my age you don’t run anywhere with a full bladder), found shoes and socks and a hoodie, she had calmly walked out and with a few waves of her arms had that calf were he belonged.

Seriously.

In yoga pants, flip flops and a t-shirt.

I was impressed.

Fast forward 24 hours.

I look out the kitchen window and see that same varmint calf in the ditch.

What? I thought the fence was fixed?

Buddy’s gone. Angel Girl’s at work. It’s just me. But if they can do this, honestly, how hard can it be?

I went to the bathroom as a precautionary measure, found shoes and socks and a hoodie and walked calmly down the road just like the kids.

But that calf took one look at me and started running. The opposite direction. Fast.

Seriously? Do I look that scary in the morning? Maybe I should have combed my hair?

We run back and forth along the fence line a few times before he bolted for the yard. Under the clothesline, past the house, and through the garden with me in hot pursuit.

He hooked a right just as we got to the gate, ran back to the yard and we did the whole thing again.

Twice.

As we rounded the corner past the house for the third time I called it quits.

Varmint calf won.

I walked in the house and called my husband.

I can’t tell you what I said, but it worked.

He drove home.

He calmly walked to the ditch where he found the varmint calf resting, obviously exhausted after our race.

Then he waved his hands.

And that varmint calf miraculously found the hole in the fence and jumped back in.

Boom. Just like that.

I give up.

I think I’ll stick to quilting.

Why Crocs Don’t Belong on a Farm

800px-pink_crocs_1001349I may be the only one in the world who doesn’t like crocs.

I’ve watched this fad from a distance for awhile now and I am still not impressed.   Do I really want to wear clunky plastic shoes in bright neon colors?

I think not.

Or … at least I thought not.

Until…I found a pair for a quarter at a garage sale a few weeks ago. They were even my size.

So I bought them.

Now I know why I don’t like crocs.

The next day I wore them out in the garden and ended up with filthy feet because of  all the dirt that fell through the holes in the shoes.

I wore them out to the mailbox in the rain and ended up with soaked and slimy feet as the water poured right in those same holes.

But the final straw was this afternoon. I slipped them on to run out to the hen house for an egg. All was fine until I headed back to the house.

I suddenly noticed that something was gooey in my left shoe.

It was not only gooey – but it smelled quite nasty.

A nice sized chuck of chicken manure had slipped right in one of those holes as I gathered eggs and was now smashed all over the bottom of my foot.

I don’t like crocs.