I started out the morning task of worming the flock in a chipper mood. I had my flock just about in their holding pen without a snafu when the Hey, Hey, We're the Monkeys gang - that would be the menagerie of crippled and small statured goats led by The Head Troll - stepped upon the scene. Determined to place themselves securely in the same holding pen as my flock, my calm mood soured.
Sourness led to down and out tartness as the ducks, led proudly by old Priscilla the goose, also entered the fray.
"Surely there must be food in that bucket she carries," they quacked.
"I shall investigate," said the Pig.
By now my morning had become a chaotic mess and as I was swallowed by a myriad of feet all around me, I tripped on a bucket. This caused half the flock to scatter, and left me bruised in spirit and skin.
I am flawed. The one place I know I can be flawed and not be judged is in the barnyard. No matter what I say out of frustration - the faces that greet me seconds later show acceptance. I was going to say forgiveness, but I don't believe they ever enter a period where they judge me.
This does not mean I don't try to be the best I can be with my animals. I do, I really do. But I can be tired or rushed like anyone, and they take the worst of it sometimes in my frustrated words to the wind and walls.
I like to think all my songs I sing them, and left over salad, apples, back rubs, and love-ins make up for my falls from human grace. This face of one of the yearling ewes seems to say it does.
