Farmer H has done it again.
He took the day off work. I'm not sure what he did, besides mow the whole front field, but he wasn't tired enough to lay in his La-Z-Boy after supper. He escaped the Mansion and my clutches. I know he didn't go to the auction. He's mad. Somebody called the health department, and the proprietor's wife can no longer sell food at the auction. Farmer H was in the habit of grabbing a sausage or two at that venue. Now some health nut has put an end to a woman's pocket money and sustenance for bargain-hunters. Sweet Gummi Mary! It's not like she laid out sheep entrails on a wooden table in the sun for 12 hours, letting flies do their breeding, dogs raise a leg, people sneeze, and folks fondle them with their left hands while debating on whether to buy a portion. That may fly in India, but it doesn't fly in Hillmomba, apparently. This might be the end of Auction Meat!
So...Farmer H left the premises, only to return some 90 minutes later and inform me that he had traded two goats for...wait for it...consider the possibilities...something hooved that can live with the four remaining goats...A MINIATURE PONY! Maybe he'll get me a picture in the daylight.
This might just be the best critter he's brought home since that big blue turkey.