One of the onerous chores we have here in Farmville is hauling water to the pasture for the horses. And by onerous I mean difficult and time-consuming. Water is heavy and, by definition, wet. So I'll add messy to the onerous bit.
We haul water about every two days. We fill two 5-gallon buckets with tadpole-laden rain water from the swimming pool. They are heavy, and when filled, it takes two of us to carry them. So we lug them to the car, drive to the gate, open it, drive through the gate, close the gate, drive to a second gate, repeat the open-drive-close-gate-shuffle, and finally arrive at an old bathtub on the edge of the pasture. No happy horses greet us. They simply glance across the pasture with their aloof “we are French and you are not” looks.
After carefully emptying the buckets into the tub we return from whence we came, stow the buckets, and breathe a sigh of relief that we have at least 48 hours before we have to repeat this song and dance.
Yesterday just before dusk Hunt encountered a hunter walking across our pasture. I guess this man felt guilty about trespassing, so he stopped to chat about the “pretty horses.” This was a red flag to Hunt indicating that this man wasn't from around these parts or from the countryside at all, because, whatever virtues our horses do have, beauty isn't one of them. But the man did have a shotgun, so Hunt didn't question his intentions. (And, truth be told, Hunt was having a hard time understanding the man's rapid-fire French, and he might have actually been telling Hunt that he thought Hunt was pretty and reminded him of a horse. We will never know.)
The problem really was the man's dog. While Hunt and the hunter chatted, this rather large and furry animal took the opportunity to jump into the bathtub we had just filled with water. In an instant the water disappeared into his fur, much like disappearing into a sponge. He then jumped out and shook himself violently, sending that precious commodity everywhere but the tub. It all happened so quickly, and there was nothing to be done except to haul more water....
I am a little tired of the hunters. They get out early each day after consuming several shots of brandy (we've been told) or other bracing liquid, and begin firing their guns at who-knows-what. Our dogs react by beginning a harmonious baying session, first one, then the other two joining in until they reach such a feverish level of excitement that Hunt or I must get out of bed to calm them. The hardest part—besides rushing into a freezing-cold room—is to execute this maneuver quickly enough so that no dogs are able to slip into our bedroom before our return. And as sorry as we are that they are frightened by the gunshots and just want some human company, we need our sleep to face the rigors of Farmville and cannot stay up chatting with them about their hopes and dreams.
Farmville. Last night when I mixed the pig's potato flakes with water, I was rather haphazard about it. I admit I should have added more water. But I simply do not care for the pig. There. I have said it. I have tried to become friends. But she remains stoic in her resolve to hate me and all things American. I do not understand it. To her I say this, “You are ugly. And you eat like a pig, which, considering the circumstances, should not be held against you, I suppose.”
Well, dry potato flakes and pigs apparently do not mix well, and after sampling a little in her piggish—dare I say hoggish—fashion, she began a horrendous-sounding series of coughs and gasps for air. She stumbled away from her food and bumped into bushes and clanged into objects. I was really scared and screamed for Hunt to come and help. He came running, and we watched helplessly as she coughed and gasped another two minutes, and I assured him I would NOT give CPR to any pig ever, but could he? He remained silent, probably thinking about how big a hole he'd have to dig to hide such a thing.
There was nothing I could do for her. She would either make it or not, and my presence wouldn't matter at all. So I ran away.
Well, this morning, I am relieved to report, the pig appeared, ready for her breakfast. And not only did I add plenty of water to her potato flakes (making a sort of potato soup), but I included a moldy tangerine and some limp celery as well. I may be inept at this farming business, but never let it be said that I am heartless.
