Journal of a Living Lady #218
Nancy White Kelly
Drive by our modest three-acre pasture and you will likely see twelve legs and two horns. None of them belong to Buddy and me.
The gelding, mare, and a billy goat named Junior belong to a friend. The owner is borrowing our pasture while she reseeds her own acreage. Buddy and I get the pleasure of seeing and hearing barnyard sounds without the expense or obligation to feed them.
Animals without partners grieve me. Skip and Spirit behave like an old married couple. But Junior is lonely. I have unsuccessfully hinted that Junior needs a Sally to keep him company. Maybe someday his owner will concede that life is lonely without a similar companion.
Several years ago a goat-dumper put two wild goats in our pasture. We took care of them and they eventually became affectionate pets. One of them had a trick. He loved to leap on top of our car. It was part of our daily life to shoo him down and scold him for denting the car roof again. Fortunately, it was an old car that we used for local errands. The dents didn’t matter.
When our then teenage boys became drivers, the Kelly car inventory increased. We couldn’t keep Jumper from vehicular roof hopping. Eventually we had to find a good home for Jumper and his friend.
Now, there are animals again in the pasture. They are fed hay and bag feed twice a day. These mammals are never satisfied and have become melodramatic beggars. Spirit, Skip, and Junior gather at the pasture gate and cast votes on who sings tenor for their supper. The threesome then neigh and bleat in a mournful crescendo that would make a tough man cry. Such softies Buddy and I are when it comes to animals. Unless we are in our Sunday finest, we generally oblige the hoofed stage stars with special treats.
I suspect the occupancy rate of the pasture is about to change. Spring is around the corner. Buddy and I are getting domestic fowl itch again. In spite of our poor record of guarding poultry from mysterious varmints, we are ready to acquire a few chickens and guineas. We are actively looking for flapping feathers at the flea markets. If you see a strutting rooster holding a for-sale sign, let us know.
After relinquishing Tyson, a stray dog, to his owners a few months ago, I still have hopes of locating a toy, red female dachshund. I am purposely taking my time as I want it to be mutual love at first sight. My preference is for a young red dachshund that is already housebroken. If you know of such a dog looking for a mildly dysfunctional home, please contact me.
Buddy has put in a request too. He wants a pet pig, a real one, not a pot-bellied midget. I am not opposed to having a piglet, but my temporarily senile husband wants to make the pig a house pet. He insists that you can housebreak a piggy to a kitty litter box. I insist on the last word since I am the primary inside house keeper. That word continues to be, no.
Undaunted, Buddy has spent several dull February days researching pigs on the Internet. Our den overruns with oinking testimonials supporting his housebreaking claim.
I love Buddy dearly, but don’t share his enthusiasm for an inside pig. Does that make me a bad wife? When little Porky outgrows that rectangular, gray litter box, then what? A 100 sq. foot sand box in the guest room with a wading pool and a television?
This living lady is pleading. If you know of a darling, pink piglet, please forget you ever knew me.
