“And here I thought animals didn’t harbor unjustified hatred toward others.” I patted Bitsy’s head.
“Oh, animals can be incredibly weird about new things and pen mates. You’d think humans would be above such behavior, but obviously not.” He reached in to pet Fawn. The old grumpy goat leaned in for a head scritch. Talk about deep moments. Who would have guessed we’d get all philosophical in a stinky barn? “Yeah, anyway. You get started here. Each pen needs to be forked out, then fresh bedding is put down. After the pens are cleaned, they all need to be grained and watered. We’re not milking anyone yet, but a few of the goat does are ready to drop kids anytime.”
“Oh, that’s exciting!” My sight flickered over the ten or so goats in this large communal pen. Several were quite round in the belly region. “Do you know how to deliver kids?”
“I do, yeah, I do it yearly.” And with that, he moved on. I followed in his wake, mentally jotting down the critters and their names. There were two cows, big and brown with eyelashes that put drag queens to shame. Betty and Wilma, they were called. They were Jersey cows I was informed. Both had come to the rescue as calves with deformities. Betty had something wrong with her front hooves. Polydactyly is what Acosta called it. Wilma had a severe underbite. They both seemed pleasant and affectionate. I rubbed their soft noses and cooed to them a little.
“Why don’t people keep them for pets?” I asked as Wilma nudged at my hand for more pets.
“It’s not cost efficient to keep cattle that are deformed. That’s not a good trait that farmers wish to pass along, so they’re either sold off as veal or kept for a year and then put in the freezer just like a steer calf. These two were brought to me by 4-H kids whose farms had them pop up in the herd. The kids had grown attached and so here they are.”
“Aww, such a good home they came to.” Betty eyed me with distrust. She didn’t seem to ambulate around the pen as much as Wilma did, which was understandable. “Oh my!” Wilma then made piddle. It was a lot of piddle. Gallons of piddle. “Wow, she’s well hydrated.”
Acosta made a coughing sound, then shuffled along, his big barn boots covered with dirty hay and poop. I tried my best to pick where to put my fancy little Birkenstock hiking boots to avoid the messes, but it was nearly impossible. That made me incredibly sad and mopey.
We moved to the pen holding three pot belly pigs. Larry, Moe, and Curly. None of them seemed interested in me at all. The chickens and rooster were following us around as were Rufus and Ralph.
“This is Dynamite, my goat buck,” Acosta said as we neared a pen with high panels all around it. “He’s a master escape artist, as all the goats are, but this bad boy gets out and then makes whoopie with the girls who should have waited a few months to get bred.”
The huge black goat with the thick beard smelled horrendous. He also made these funny snort-cough-blat sounds and flapped his lips a lot. Acosta didn’t seem to mind that Dynamite stank to high heaven, but I kept my hands to myself.
“He looks okay. Why is he here?” I asked as a red and black chicken ran past, wings out, head down, clucking at us as she pecked through the hay. She looked to be on a mission. “What is wrong with this chicken?”
“Oh, that’s Ruby. Hey!” He lunged at the hen. She squawked angrily before pecking Acosta on the hand. “Ouch! Shit!” I saw blood well up on the back of his hand. My eyes flared. My God did chickens eat people?! When did this mutation crop up? Oh hell. Was Ruby a zombie chicken?! Was that why she was here?
“Why is that chicken attacking you?” I yelled, jumping to hide behind Acosta. It was every man for himself. This was his farm. If he harbored flesh-eating chickens, he was going down first. Ruby flew into my foot. I screamed and ran off to the east, the chicken ran to the west, and Bitsy bounced along after me, her long ears flopping. The buggy ran over my toes. I cried out and fell to my knees, collapsing to my side to cradle my bruised knee ala Peter Griffin fromFamily Guy.
Acosta appeared at my side, knelt down in the dirty hay, and placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
“My knee. Oh, ow, oh, ow, oh. I think it’s skinned.”
“Pull up your pant leg and let’s have a look.” He reached for the hem of my pant leg. I hissed dramatically as he wrenched and pulled to get the darn thing up. The backs of his fingers skimmed over my leg, sending sizzling sparks to my abused knee where they sparked off new pain before streaking to my groin.
“How tight are these pants?” He growled when the cuff stalled midcalf.
“Tight enough to make the boys look. Let go! Oh my God, I wonder if my kneecap is broken. Why did that chicken attack us? Does she have mad chicken disease?” I sat up gingerly, holding my leg to my chest. The pain was still sharp.
“She’s broody. I don’t think you broke your kneecap.”
I glared at him. “How do you know?! Are you a doctor?”
“No, but I would think that if you broke your kneecap, you’d be in more pain than you’re in at the moment.” He sat back on his heels, his tight butt resting on his filthy boots. I dreaded to think what my best fitting skinny jeans looked like now. I could feel something wet soaking through to my butt. If that wet was piddle I was going to besounhappy.
“Okay, that makes sense. Yes, she certainly is moody. Are we sure she’s not undead?” He snorted in that amused but unbelieving way. Like he thought I was funny, but he was also smug because he thought I was a doofus city boy.
“Not moody,broody. She’s gone off to hide a nest somewhere on this farm, but I’ll be damned if I can find it. I think the lights being on inside the barn have messed up their internal clocks. Which is good for egg production.” I blinked at him through dewy eyes. My knee really did hurt. I was sure there was blood. There had to be it hurt that badly.
“Oh yes, of course, lights make more eggs. I knew that.” I totally didn’t, and he knew I didn’t because that smug “You’re adorable but dumb” look settled on his face. The adorable part was pure conjecture. But most guys thought I was adorable. Well, the gay ones anyway. Maybe this straight farmer dude just thought I was a dipshit. My family certainly felt that way.
“Well, if you happen to see her again—”
“Run for my life?” He reached up to push some strands of hair from his face. “Oh hell, your hand is still bleeding. Shit, that hen has a hard pecker.”
And that one got him. He actually smiled. For like a millisecond, then all amusement fled his fine face to be replaced by the flat, derisive, slightly contemptuous expression I was getting to know so well. Oh well, one smile at a time. That was my motto. I’d won over a slew of people with sheer wit, charm, and a staggering knowledge of what my job entailed simply by being chipper. It was my superpower, one of my exes had told me. Captain Delightful, he’d called me. That was before we broke up. Now he called me Captain Annoying, and I called him Flaccid Frank. Oh, how quickly love fades.
“Go wiggle out of those pants to check your knee. If no bones are showing, come back here and get to work.” He stood, wiped the seeping blood pooling on the back of his hand on his pant leg, and stalked off to say something to a brown llama.
