I mean, all any of us know about farming may be summed up in two pictures.
So what on earth possessed us to even attempt it? We had some sort of earthy collective notion that it would be some sort of noble cause, a way of thanking Mother Earth for her endless bounty and making ourselves look cool and altruistic at the same time. Not to mention strong and manly, yet caring. Ladies love that.
|NOT one of us.|
Nope, as soon as we realised the stress of what we were up against - the early mornings, the feeding, the mucking out (pee-yew!), the thankless tilling of soil from dawn till dusk with nary a breadcrust to munch on at snacktimes, we knew we were onto a loser.
What we couldn't figure out was where the consignment of goats came from in the first place. We scratched our heads for four, five minutes before Michael said," I really don't care where they came from. Sure they're cute lil boogers, but they have got to go. They're eating us out of a wardrobe full of primo threads!"
But where to send them? Again, we put our heads together. But Michael cut through the clouded thinking once more with, "I don't care! Just send'em to someone we really hate."
At this, Clark's eyes lit up. "PETIT!"
He was on the phone to the truck guys within 30 seconds, and one hour later, the goats were loaded onto the truck and gone.
What Henri Petit, that foul infant pipe smoker, made of them is no concern of ours.
And the farm? Gone to rack and ruin.