Day 9

There is a vague air of defeat in the air.

No longer do we need to pitch our wits and strength against our enemy, Death Tunnel, for he is dead himself, and in his death, we feel a loss for a formidable foe that could have become a friend, had he not committed wind-induced suicide.

To commemorate him, I peel off his drunk ghost sheets and roll them up and store them, although for what purpose, I have no idea. They are definitely not going back up on that pile of shit. One tenet of farm life is you do not throw away things that could potentially be used for other things. Having a large sheet of thick plastic will be a wonderful aid for...I don't know, murdering someone, probably.

I then move on to washing off the patio. This seems like a fruitless endeavor, because the patio is where the animals like to come at sundown to frolic and exercise their status as poop-factories. But when the horses use the patio as a place to construct their arthouse doodoo sculptures, that is when it is time to try to do some poop management, which, honestly, is beginning to feel like my actual job title. Poop Manager. I make a note to ask Kent if I can change my business cards when I return.

The patio sparkles like a concrete slab that is covered in hose water. I return to the high tunnel, which I will now call the garden, because that sounds happier and is more accurate in regards to what is actually going on in that area of the property. After all, there is a thing that is high up, but it no longer is a tunnel so much as the bones of what could have been a tunnel if Utah God didn't feel it necessary to knock over anything that could be a euphemism for vaginas.

In the garden, the tomatoes are actually growing wonderfully well, in opposition to the ugly squashes that I refuse to look at even when I water them. I imagine this is because Lauren planted them. I got to work with the tomatoes twice and the first time I allowed them to get eaten and the second time I flooded them. Luckily, this actually made them leafier and more abundant little plants, so I gave myself 50% for the tomato assignment. Today is my third time working with the tomatoes, and my task is to mulch them.

Lauren instructs me to put straw and pig poop all around them, in big high mounds. I cannot see how they will survive if I put a bunch of stuff around them, so I gingerly sprinkle some straw around them and cringe every time a piece brushes a leaf. Assuredly these tomatoes are going to pull themselves out of the ground and die right in front of me if I breathe too far to the left or whatever it is I do that makes plants want to kill themselves. Lauren tells me that there is no way that amount of mulch is even going to do what mulch is supposed to do, and says, "Pile it on!" My stomach drops, panic fills my eyes, and I do as she asks, hoping she does not call me in three weeks to tell me I have ruined her life.

LIVE, DAMN YOU.

After doing that, Garden Day turns into Poultry Day. The night before, we had trouble catching two of the little baby chickens that had escaped from their coop after the wind blew it open. I swear at this point the wind is going to kill me in my sleep. We caught one, but the other went AWOL and we prayed that he would live through the night. However, it is nearing 11AM and we have not seen any sign of a chicken, which is apparently, another Very Bad Thing. According to Lauren, since he has not shown up by now, he is probably dead.

 

WHY, CHICKEN?! I loved you, we had such a bond, I moved you from The Room With The Cat into your chicken coop, cuddled against my breast, and your breast against my palm, not quite ready to be deep fried and put in a bucket for aesthetic and gustatory pleasure. And now you're dead and I'll never get to eat you...

 

I am sad, but pat myself on the back for being a stunning eulogist. 

 

To console ourselves, we clip some turkey wings, because they are assholes and getting near a turkey with even just scissors is extremely cathartic.

 If this turkey sang "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina," I definitely would not cry for it.

Let's talk about the turkeys for a second. They are major dickheads. There is one big male turkey that hates me, and that is awesome, because the feeling is totally mutual. All day long I consider how I can kick him in his dumb turkey butt and get away with it. Knowing Lauren as I do now, I have a feeling the most I would have to do is ask, and I would be able to kick him. Every time I walk by him, he fluffs out his feathers with this disconcerting noise that is a cross between a rattlesnake rattle and someone snapping a sheet really hard over a mattress. 

Fuck you, turkey bastard.

My only wish on this farm is that we have to shoot him for something. I don't care what. For eating, for feathers, for wearing a hoodie at night in the wrong neighborhood, whatever. I hate him and all his turkey girlfriends. He is a dumb turkey sultan with the ugliest harem in the world. Useless piece of poultry trash.

Our next task is to try to get some of the Cornish hens into the chicken coops. This would be a better idea if Cornish hens were not bred specifically to run at Mach 5 speeds. The best part about this job is that I get to chase a chicken around the farm with a net, but I do not take my task seriously and also I hate running, so we come up chickenless. Lauren clearly has no patience for silly chickens, because she tells me to give up after only two passes with the net. The chickens are dumb and if they get eaten by skunks then they can just die knowing we were trying to save their ungrateful feathered asses.

We instead go to inspect the chicken coops out in the pasture, to see if the chickens we put out there are still, well, there. I go with a heavy heart, remembering my missed pre-fried chicken friend who is now gone from this world, and when we get to the coops, MOTHERFUCKER YOU'RE ALIVE!

Yes, the second little chicken is just chilling in his coop with his egg brother, like I haven't spent all morning mourning his death. I swear revenge for the pain he caused me. I realize our relationship has gone south quickly, but it is the chicken's fault, really.

The day is turning long, and it is nearly quitting time, i.e. 2pm. I have one last job before the day is over, and that is to install some fence posts to tie our trellises to. Being a professional hole digger at this point, it is a snap to shove this thing in the ground.

I am the master of all.

I have realized in my previous sessions cantering across the field that I have a terrible seat, and it is time to rectify this. This includes learning to post, which is a movement that humans ought not ever make. I do not know what sadist invented posting, but their sick joke lives on forever. Posting is this movement whereby you squeeze your thighs, balance on your feet, and subtly thrust your pelvis forward in rhythm with the horse's movement. Ideally, this saves your butt from bouncing against the saddle, but it the antithesis of taking a relaxing ride. Twenty yards into posting and my thighs are incredibly sore. Forty yards and my butt hurts so much I want to die.

I slow Coco into a walk, because I did not sign up for hard work. Or actually I did, but I did not sign up for not enjoying being on a pony, and I am coming dangerously close to that time. My brain is full of old trainers' instructions to do things that 11-year-old Roxanne was far too clumsy and chubby to be able to do. I am not sure I even knew what my pelvis was for, let alone that it could go forward at that age. Posting does seem to come more naturally now, and even though my entire lower body hurts, a rhythm that took me years to figure out as a kid now takes me half an hour to get into. 

 

I do not reflect on why that is.

I figure it is time to try posting again, and kick Coco into a trot, but we have not even gone another ten feet before she stumbles, and I turn my knee. Now that we are both lame, I figure it is time to just call it a day. 

I go inside and, like a true farmer, spend the rest of my night icing my knee and watching Orange is the New Black.

GOAT OF THE DAY: Fugly

I think he has a real name, but everyone calls him Fugly, or Fugs. It is not too difficult to see why. He was born in freezing temperatures and apparently his ears froze to the ground, so they had to be cut off. They also could not cut his horns properly, and now they're all weird and curly. Also he has a club foot, and what appears to be a giant nipple coming out of his chest. I dunno. He's really friendly though.

"Please be my friend."