The land of Hillmomba is parched these days, my friends. Parched, like Kelly Wiglesworth, the runner-up of the original Survivor, would be if Sue Hawk ever encountered her in the desert, and refused to give her drink of water. Just like she promised in her Rat and Snake Speech.
Our yard has not been mowed since May. No need. It's brown. And short. And, oh yeah...dry. The chickens roam farther and farther from the house. The goats even got onto the gravel road this morning when the lonely goatherd Pony was minding them for their hour of a.m. recreation. You know it's dry when a goat tries to eat gravel and dust rather than your yard. A truck passed by and honked at them. Like goats have enough sense to get out of the road.
I told The Pony to call them in. That's all they understand. Time to run out of the pen. Time to run into the pen. Goats are kind of like sheep. When one starts running, the rest follow. All The Pony has to do is clap his hands, and they dash lickety-split back into their wooded enclosure. It would make a good party trick, if a party consisted of people standing around in a parched front field, waiting for goats to return to a pen. Look for our new show on The Travel Channel.
Farmer H even drug the hose connected to the well spigot doodad over to the porch last night and watered the rose bush and lilac bush. I've never seen him do that in all our years living in this Hillmomban paradise. The sky clouds up in the afternoon, but nary a drop of rain falls to lubricate our leathery skin. The chickens might start laying leathery eggs. For real.
I truly appreciate my daily 44 oz. Diet Coke.