There is a certain routine to smallholding, the usual jobs have to be done, the usual suspects fed and watered. But its never really boring. Sometimes it is a bind having to go and see to the needs of the critters before sitting down to dinner, or when the rain is horizontally washing the windows its a bit of an effort to leave the warm dry cottage and round up geese who should know better and have gone to bed in the safety of the goat house rather than sit in a wagon train style circle in the cauldron. They do this presumably so that each gets a good view of the fox choosing which one to have for supper.
So today while attending to the pigs, there I was measuring out 18kg of feed from Trixie trailer. I had left four sacks inside her, partly through running out of time on the morning I unloaded her, and partly as she is parked next to the pig pen it seems logical to leave few bags in there to save carrying feed down to the pigs and running the gauntlet of veracious Ryelands. Normal circumstances involve feeding the Ryelands first, as far as possible from all the other critters which gives a window of opportunity to navigate the smallholding without tripping over sheep with their begging bowls out.
As I filled the feed bucket unmolested by the Ryeland who had fallen for the above ploy, again, there was a sort of crump sound from the rear of the trailer, closely followed by a pitiful "MeheeeeeeeHHH!" I really would have helped Ferny Fern Fern from Ferntown had I not been rendered helpless by laughing. I also knew that if I helped her she would help herself to the pigs breakfast so I decided to be cruel to be kind, and left her too it. Fern must have a better sense of direction and keener sense of smell than I gave her credit for because as I carried on measuring the feed she, bucket still attached, tried to get a share.
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