My mother said this
This morning started
just like any other; the sun popped over the horizon, roosters crowed, and the train whistle sounded at exactly five.
I hopped out of bed,
pulled on some semi-clean Carhartts, and headed out to the barn. My girls were
expecting a stork to stop by, and I heard the new babies as I stepped over the
Two sets of twins
greeted me; both of my momma-goats did well. I made sure the teats were
stripped and giving a good flow. I liked my kids to get big quickly, as there
were a lot of weeds to eat on the south forty.
I tossed the cows
and horses a few flakes of hay to keep them busy. The new momma-goats were in
for a treat. I scooped a few handfuls of grain into their feeding trough. They
turned their little snouts into vacuums, snarfing up as much grain as they
could. The kids were already hopping around. I dug around the back of the barn
and found a five gallon plastic bucket, half-filled with water. I put it in the
pen, but the goats wouldn’t drink. I guess they were plum tuckered out.
I let the cows out
to pasture, and started brushing down my Fjord horses. The barn was warm, and
the drone of bottle-flies and their dragonfly friends made me a bit sleepy. I
know, farmers are s’posed to be up and running from dusk till dawn, but I was
too content and peaceful to fight the sandman. Besides, I didn’t get my cup of
coffee to jump-start my brain.
I nodded off for a
few winks, when I heard an awful ruckus. I jumped up quick – a might too quick.
Sparky, my big stallion, got spooked and kicked me square in the backside. I
went sailing through the stall and over the door. It hurt something fierce, I
tell ya. I think Sparky broke my tailbone, or whatever other bone is in your rump.
The momma-goats were
thrashing around, making all manner of noises and crashes. I hobbled over to
their pen. I counted one… two… three little beeping kids. Now, where could that
other one have gone off to? I started looking through some of the little piles
of hay and under the tractor. No luck, that little pipsqueak had wandered off
somewhere and riled up his momma.
One of the goats was
beating the plastic bucket with her head. I looked in, and the fourth little
kid had hopped himself right into the bucket. He looked drowned, but I didn’t
want to let my girls down.
I told my girls to keep their fleece on; I was gonna save that little kid, no matter what.
I ran out to the
driveway, carrying the limp little baby. I tried smacking its little butt, just
like they did on the television. Didn’t work. I started whacking it harder and
harder, and all it did was make my hand redder. I was gonna try even harder,
but I got distracted when Deputy Steve saw me and pulled his cruiser into my
driveway. Boy, I was a happy farmer, I tell ya.
“Hey, Sheriff,” I yelled.
“Help me beat my kid!”
I didn’t wait for an
answer, ‘cuz I had another idea I remembered from television. I put my mouth
over the baby goat’s snout, held it up so gravity would be helping, and tried
to suck the water out. That worked, and I swallowed a big mouthful. The only
problem was it wasn’t water. It was moonshine my brother had made over the
weekend. He uses it to degrease engine parts.
Once that little kid
was empty, he woke up and started yelling for his momma. I was proud, right
then. I turned my big smiling face towards Deputy Steve.
Well, the Deputy ran
over and started beating me over the head with his nightstick. I always got
along well with the law, so I never saw it coming. I woke up in jail, and now
they got me in front of you, Judge.
So here I stand, a
broke-ass, kid-beating drunk, just like my mother said would happen. I just
wish she didn’t listen to Country and Western music so much.
And that, Judge, is
God’s honest truth.