Life, And Its Opposite

The Mansion is bursting with life.

More specifically, the grounds of Hillmomba just outside the Mansion are bursting with life. Don't want any creepy crawlies inside the Mansion proper. I despise the creepy crawlies. Especially those millipedes that worm their way in every couple of years. And the field mice that appear every few years when we get our first cold snap. And the flies that flutter in wait, darting in as soon as one of the menfolk open the door.

But outside the Mansion, that addition of critters is usually positive. We had a new baby goat born yesterday. As opposed to and OLD baby goat, I presume. But that's how people talk, new baby style. I don't have a picture yet. Didn't you hear? She was just born YESTERDAY!

The goat momma was missing from the herd when Farmer H went to release his horde to nibble my yard plants. He could not find her, so sent for reinforcements: The Pony. The Pony found her in a nanosecond. Maybe it was a nannysecond. She's a small white goat. This is her first baby. According to The Pony, she is a good mother. Farmer H moved them to the BARn lean-to rather than let them reside in a brush pile on the trail to his cabin. They had moved again by this evening. But The Pony is intent on capturing them on his phone camera as soon as possible. The new baby is a black-and-white girly-goat. I have not yet seen her with my own eyes.

I do, however, see the new baby chicks who are approaching chicken adolescences. The first four are already going through a fowl puberty of sorts. All gangly and unattractive, bold and adventurous. The second set of twelve are moving around with more confidence, though still sticking close to their hatch-mom, a black banty hen with ankle-feathers. Another black hen is sitting, her offspring due any day now.

But because Even Steven lurks, some critters had to expire. Nature's balancing act, you know. Thank the Gummi Mary, we did not cede like for like. I did not feel at all guilty on my killing spree. My faithful accomplice, The Pony, and I made short work of a gaggle of wasps the size of my index finger. Evil things, they were. Dive-bombing The Pony when I wasn't around. And he only trying to reach the safety of the Mansion. So we took the Black Flag Wasp and Hornet Spray that shoots 20 feet, and shot those slim villains dead. Though perhaps we took too much joy in watching them writhe until still.

I'm not going to Folsom Prison. I don't know anything about that man in Reno.