Procrastination is my middle name. I’m supposed to be finishing an article for a feature.
Lots of other tasks have been done in my office this morning, blog obviously included, but the desire to get stuck into this article has so far alluded me.
It’s a beautiful sunny Hawke’s Bay day outside and I keep gazing out the window at the grass growing.
Our extended family grew over the weekend. My eight-year-old pet cow aptly named “calfie” after being hand reared when I was pregnant with child #1 had another calf of her own. Just looking at her udder reminds me that women have nothing to worry about when it comes to carrying around our breastfeeding boobs. She’s huge.
It’s a gorgeous wee bovine, but we don’t get attached. We don’t even name it. Come this time next year we’ll be planning to put it in the freezer. Steak, roasts, casseroles and sausages…
We don’t name the pigs either. Well, we do in a way – they’re all called “Pig”. Big Pig has just left the paddock (courtesy of the butcher’s truck), middle Pig is about to go out in to the paddock and little Pig is in the sty. I’m not sad enough to give them names like Bacon, Chops, Roast or Apple Sauce.
It’s harder with the lambs. Feeding them by hand four times a day makes you a little more inclined to reach out to pat them and the kids love the way they follow them around nibbling on their knees.
We keep the ewe lambs (that’s the girls for any townies out there) as friends for our ram (an old stud boy that we saved from the pet food line for a dozen cans a few years ago). So Rosie, Brownie, Blackie-Orange (don’t ask, I don’t know why) and Lady are out in the laneway next to the house with their swollen tummies waiting to boost the flock or boost the freezer.
And Diesel is there too. You see, we broke the rules. We named a boy. He’s actually a wether now (no balls) but we can’t kill him because he’s a Champion.
Sarah took him to pet day with a couple of days notice after her trained lamb died of pulpy kidney (to which Sarah’s first response was to ask if we were having her for dinner).
Diesel was next in line as the next best lamb. He came home with five ribbons, three of them red. How can we eat a champion? He was never meant to be a pet so he’s a professional lawn mower now.
At least the kids can never remember all the chooks names and they like eggs. We’re definitely not getting a rooster! I keep calling Sarah and Lachlan the kids – maybe we should get a goat.
Now. Shall I finish this story for my farming feature or go inside for lunch? I am a bit peckish after all this procrastination.