Today I called Noelle the C word and it wasn't cow. When the husband is in the city, I am responsible for milking the cow and feeding the chickens. Not a huge time commitment, but when you add getting everybody up and fed, lunches made and putting myself together in a somewhat presentable state, it adds an extra 40 minutes or so to a morning that is already a frenzied, screaming, running out the door at 7:45 mess due to my fantastic procrastination skills. When I have to drag my butt and the 20lb milker out to the barn at 5:45 a.m. for a puddle of milk from an ornery cow, it makes me upset. What makes me even more upset is watching her leave the barn so she can nurse a very large calf. I called him the B word and it wasn't Billy or Beef.
The days of having Noelle supply enough milk for every creature on the farm, seem to be over now that Billy is big enough to suck her dry in five minutes. When I was staring at a refrigerator overflowing with milk a few months back, I was grateful we had the calf to share in the bounty, but now I am in a panic. The thought of store bought milk or butter makes me sad, not to mention what it would do to my street cred as a self-sustainer.
We tried luring Billy into the barn one night but he broke out of the stall within an hour and went running to his Mommy. A night of Noelle in the barn meant a night listening to the most heartbreaking laments you have ever heard. We need a plan. Maybe he should be renamed Vinny Veal? I am thinking about inventing some sort of screw top teet caps. I could make millions.
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