I have been saturated in farm life by this point. I smell like animals constantly. I am sunburned and muscular (citation needed). It is a toss up at any given moment whether I have tanned or am just covered in dirt. High winds and constant sun mean I have to have my hair restrained and my head covered. Necessity dictates I now look like this:
Necessity and bad luck.
As it is early and not quite fucking-kill-me-now hot, it is also a good time to plant squash. I get my gloves and head into one of the plots of land that used to be an aviary, where I dug holes at some point, only who can remember because that is all I do now. I bring the squash seedlings with me, and stare at them for a good long while.
I have to stare at them because I do not know anything about planting. For some reason, Lauren has entrusted what I imagine is a fairly important task to someone who takes more joy in ripping plants out of the ground than she does in putting them back in. I wonder if the hat is making me look more competent than I actually am, but knowing what my face looks like, I conclude that can't be it. It is just a task that needs to get done, and I am a person, and people generally can do these things.
I try to follow the steps Lauren told me. Fill the hole with water, gently put my hands around the seedlings and plop them in, then fill it with dirt and water it again. I fill the hole with water, and regard the seedlings. I feel as if I have a new-found kinship with 15-year-old boys seeing their first boob, because I have ZERO concept of what these things are and what I should do with them. I stick a finger in the planter box and poke at one of the seedlings. This does not seem like an effective way to get them to be planted, so I try to pull one out carefully. I am certain I have killed all of the roots now. I stick the thing in the ground before I do anything worse, and figure it looks pretty similar to pictures I have seen of things growing, which is good enough for me.
There's the plant, there's the ground...yup, everything seems in order.
I agonize over this nine more times, and then return to the house for eating.
I decide after a mind-nourishing meal that planting things is not something I ought to be doing. Fortunately, Lauren has another task for me. Dig out the pond! Yay, something I have not done before! Digging out the pond is different than other digging because if it isn't then what is the point of living anyway. Then I discover I have to dig out the pond because it is full of pig poop.
Much of Utah is filled with shit.
The work is actually entirely pleasant, seeing as how I am now inured to the smell of pig manure. The day is warm, but the water cools everything down, and seeing as how I am on the shady side of the house for once, I see all the goats playing around while I am working, instead of having to wait for the end of the day.
Cutest coworkers ever.
The animals start stirring up as a truck drives on to the property. I am consumed with this task that is much more suited to my unique talents (moving poop) and so I do not realize what is going on at first. Then I look up and see the most AMAZING THING.
You know, if you're into that sort of thing.
It is a drive-up abattoir. The knacker comes to the farm and butchers your animal, so that you may sell your meats as State Inspected (though not USDA inspected). For most people, that is good enough. It also means you don't have to take time out of your day to shoot your cow in the face, so, you know, pros and cons.
Like the farrier, I want to take a picture, but I do not want to impose on his respectful trade by acting like it is an attraction at Disney Land (Beauty and Using All Parts of the Beast?). Instead, I take one of the most morbid photos I think I now can lay claim to:
"Boxer, it doesn't say vet, it says knacker!"
And the circle of life continues, with goats getting psychological trauma and me getting delicious hamburgers. All feels right in the world.
Life does go on (not for the cow), and I move on to trimming Merlin's hooves. Merlin is a big goat, and he has very big feet, and I do not anticipate trimming his hooves. Lauren has to help me pull him over to the trimming post, and also to hold him still. He is still unruly, and large, and decides it would be a good time to try to take a bite out of my elbow.
"Don't stand for that!" Lauren says. "Hit him in the face."
I dither, looking back at Merlin's giant head. He did try to bite me, but I can't just hit a goat in the face. First of all, he hasn't even burned dinner. Second of all, he's black. I mean, there are just so many things going on here. When he tries to take another bite, I bop him on his horns and say, "Excuse me, sir, that is not very nice."
It feels like a good compromise.
Merlin does seem to take the cue, and I am pleasantly surprised to find that I am much better at trimming hooves than I was even four days ago. Let me elucidate something: trimming hooves is fucking difficult. You need to have the world's strongest hands to get through some of these goats. If I had been doing rock climbing hand exercises for a year, I would feel mildly competent about being able to trim goat hooves. Despite encouraging the health and longevity of the goat, this is clearly one of those things that Nature probably laughs about, while going, "Fools! If I wanted hooves trim, I would have done it myself!"
Nature is a notorious asshole, but the life of man is about telling Nature to stuff it. My grip strength has obviously improved, as has my technique.
Also my fashion sense.
By now, the day is winding down. The hard tasks like making things grow and maintaining other living things are over, and we are down to drinking cider and engaging in tasks that can only be described as adorable, such as teaching baby goats to walk on leashes.
Or stand next to their brother's butt, whatever.
As I walk the baby goats, Lauren tells me one of the farm-iest things I have ever heard. It is called 'zucchini-ing' someone. Basically, when you grow a giant zucchini, it is the general consensus among farmers that there is absolutely, 100% nothing you can do with this zucchini except pawn it off on someone else. This results in just...ending up with a giant zucchini. They can be placed in one's car, on one's doorstep, in a basket covered in a blanket with a recorder of baby sounds, you know, the sky is the limit for where you want to unload your zucchini. I am torn between thinking this is the strangest thing I have ever heard and pondering how I am going to procure multiple giant zucchini so I can just leave them with people I know.
Luckily for my friends and all those I know who are opposed to gourds, I do not have long to think about this it is, for it is now my favorite time of the day: pony time!
On the docket is more jumping, which means I get to put on my special pants. They make me look fancy, dignified, and like someone who knows what they're doing.
Coco knows that all for the lie it is.
I walk Coco around the yard a bit to warm her up before we go out to pasture, and I ask Lauren about her career in dressage. She says it was short-lived, because dressage is less about what you know, and more about who you blow. I curse my missed opportunity of an illustrious career as a top dressage competitor.
Coco and I head out to pasture and canter around for a while. I trade my hat for a helmet, because we will be jumping, and while I know my mother would understand having to write, "Died as she lived, being an idiot about horses" on my headstone, she would still be mad at me for doing so. Plus, it is a very imposing jump.
GOD PLEASE LET ME LIVE!
I feel much better in the saddle, though far from perfect. After a while, Coco and I are both tired and I take her in for a hose down and cider. Even though I am the one drinking, she is the one that passes out on the front lawn next to her own poop. Lauren and I sit outside, talking about life for a few hours, and I forget that it is only 4pm, which means I am just sitting there slowly accumulating cancer via the sun for far longer than I usually would. But those are concerns for city folk, and also if the Marlboro cowboy can die of cancer, so can I, dammit.
Eventually the 87 degree heat wins out over stubborn idiocy, and I retire to my room, where I drink chocolate milk for dinner and pass the fuck out.
GOAT OF THE DAY: Merlin
Merlin is the buck of the herd, so he is all the baby goats' dad. He looks like the beast that everyone thought Satan had the head of, and has a wondrous beard like a wizard goat. His likes include getting stoned around the barbeque and banging all the lady goats.
"Go play, children, it's daddy's special time."
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