First of all, just this week I found myself pulling a label off of a metal rack that will occupy the space beneath the pedestal sink in my master bathroom, providing much needed storage, and noticed that it was attached to the rack by a stretchy rubber-band-like thingy. Weirdly, my mind did not think garbage when I looked at it. Instead I removed it carefully, tore off the paper tag for recycling and carefully scrutinized that stretchy band trying to figure out what I could use it for. And the next thought was even worse. I was elated to realize that I had purchased three racks which meant I was the proud owner of three of these things.
Don't tell me that doesn't shock you. It shocked me enough (evidence that I am not all Farm yet) that I did a double-take at who was thinking these thoughts.
And let's not stop there. It does get worse.
My best farm friend Valerie was over at the house. I confessed to her that I'd found something incredibly male on my computer during my week of browsing that I just had to show her. We hurried into my office, closed the door and I brought 'the picture' up on the screen. We both gave out a huge sigh of admiration at the same time and jumped into a full analysis of this incredible creature.
Don't get too excited though, it was a Boer goat buck.
Honest. I have to admit that one scares me. In fact, I think I am close to being out of control when it comes to goats completely. I am not skilled at finding the best, only at admiring many. So much so that I have begun collecting them. Luckily I realized what I was doing soon enough to stop myself from making a Boer buck-sized dent in my checking account and filling my barn stalls up with dainty does (which is not a good thing when you're talking meat goats).
I am at a controlled level and learning how to maintain. By the time all the does I'm committed to buying are on the farm I will have five. After all unlike my Victorian salt shakers (I have over a hundred) and my books (I suspect thousands), goats require a regular investment in food and maintenance like stall cleaning, immunizations, trimming hooves, and health checks. No matter how much I want goats, I don't want so many that my life goes the way of the alfalfa I feed them so generously.
On top of this there is one other thing that is so surreal it really shakes my City thinking. It's embarrassing to even admit. I often smell like goats. That isn't good. It's not really pleasant. But it also doesn't bother me a lot. Not like it would have a year ago.
Back then the cat's box was nauseating beyond words, the fur she shed was irritating, and and any occassional mishaps in the house were reason to seriously think about opening the back door and hoping she ran away on her own.
That all went by the wayside slowly over the course of almost a year on the farm, when some form of animal poo was frequently tread into the house on the bottom of everyone's shoes because animals don't use toilets and we had animals. I know it's disgusting, but it's also natural, and I cleaned it up dutifully knowing that complaining wouldn't change anything, I didn't want to get rid of the animals.
I even liked the idea of some of this poo because of the power it had to make my gardens so much healthier. I had Joe avidly collecting and depositing the chicken manure from our little Eglu into the compost bins. I longed for him to go out and haul me in some dried cow patties for the same reason, something he never really did. It was becoming easier to think of poo as something desireable when I realized how good it was for growing food and flowers.
On top of that, on a farm animal waste is a frequent topic of discussion. There are actually farm workshops designed to do nothing more than discuss the management of poo. I have been asked several times where the manure pile is on our farm. Interesting. This was not even thought of in the city. Only people with dogs worried about such things and they often deal with it in a citified fashion, such as buying scientifically designed dog food that ensured their pet's feces would crumble nicely within a matter of hours and disintegrate naturally into the lawn without leaving any nasty signs or tell-tell smells. Or, they hire someone to collect it once a week while they are away at work and before the weekend when they will be out back barbecuing or gardening and such unpleasant things would prove to be a downer to deal with themselves.
Here poo is a way of life and the sooner you learn to deal with it the better. It's true that sometimes in dealing with it you drag a bit around with you. So what? Better to know it's there and know you need to take care of it instead of pretending it doesn't even exist.
I like goats and if being with them means smelling like them until I can clean up and change then I'm okay with that. I hardly even notice, but I do know about it and I take care of it.
And that is another change. In the city I ignored poo as much as possible and hated even seeing signs hinting it might exist, hence my disgust with the cat. Now, if I don't see it I worry. I know it should be there and if it isn't something is wrong on the farm. I encourage poo. Lots of it. Because it is a sure sign of life.
Looking at something I would have thrown away without even a first thought a year ago, such as the little stretchy band holding labels on a metal rack, and not seeing garbage but a possibility is definitely a change. It may even be a good one, just like learning to deal with poo.
By the way, here's "THE" picture. Wish I owned a buck like this.
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