I'm in a vile humor. It was 89 degrees yesterday, so I stayed in until evening, then dug out quack grass (in the shade of a tarp) and transplanted Chinese cabbages and non-heading broccoli, and thinned my tragically already-thin beets (damn guineas have been scratching through there, leaving clumps of seedlings and big empty stretches). Must fill in the gaps with more beet seed. The chickens were still penned up, but the guineas figured out an escape route, so we were running them off as we worked. The mosquitos were legion.
The garden was dry everywhere, so we watered and watered.
Then, compelled (and addled) by the heat, I cranked the hot oven up and attempted to make gluten-free cheese Danishes. They were, unsurprisingly, disappointing. The Danish part was a whole lot like my pita bread, and the cream cheese filling was blah. "They're... a little... like cheese Danishes," said C. politely, after trying one. Poor C. gets far fewer baked goods since I went GF. I ate two, working hard to believe in them, and woke up in the night with a miserable stomach ache. Had to listen to two Agatha Christies and a Dragnet on my phone before I could fall back to sleep. Feh.
Today marks the end of the heat wave. Hurrah! It's muggy, but only going to get to about 75 degrees.
So I booble out to feed the chickens, with Arnold and Earl at my heels. Tricks the black sheep is out, as usual. She stays close, though, and I can't figure out how she gets out, so we live with it for now. I go to let her back in (she's always very willing), and Bambi the buttheaded sheep bulls her way by me. I grab at her, and Savvy the good sheep pushes out the gate as well. Bloody hell. I have all three sheep loose, and here come the goats. What a moron I am this morning.
Cursing the foul ancestry of all sheep and goats, I stump over to the house to get a bucket of grain. And here comes the alpaca. I push past goats and alpaca to dump grain in several spots in the pasture, thumping the goats with the bucket to move them out of the way. It doesn't work. Pushy bastards. I wave the bucket alluringly at the sheep (think Vanna White here), and they head over. Arnold the urban granddog is fascinated by livestock, and "helps" by standing in exactly the wrong place, sniffing sheep noses, and blocking access to the gate. Finally, I get Tricks and Savvy in, but Bambi is too wily. Bloody hell. She's moving down C.'s stone path, nibbling delicately at the oregano and thyme along the side. Fine. I'm out of grain and patience.
I feed and water the chickens and guineas, water the greenhouse, spray water on Appalling the alpaca, who likes that sort of thing, water the thyme and oregano along the path (hoping Bambi is still there so I can have the pleasure of squirting her, but nooooo), and head inside. At the door, I conspicuously scoop more oats in my bucket, shaking the grain alluringly and laying a looped leash inside, while ignoring Bambi. She's hooked. She tip-taps up the steps onto the porch. I pull the loop around her fat, annoying neck, and lead her back into the pasture. Score one for the moron.
Now I'm inside, cooling off under the ceiling fan and trying to get over myself. Next, it's back out into the garden to dig and plant and mulch and water. Looking forward to it. There are no goats or sheep in the garden.
Two guinea eggs today (C. figured out where the guineas were escaping, and fixed it).