Barbara Neville's Blog - Posts Tagged "rural"
Goat ropers
Like any other author, I get interrupted. But, probably by different things than most. Earlier today I was setting up a new author page at: https://books.pronoun.com/barbaranevi...
And my puppy buyer showed up. Okay, I walk out, call the puppy and take him out to his new boy. No problem, but then Pa, a good guy and repeat buyer who just drove two hundred miles to get here, says. "You sold all your goats?"
"Nope," I say. "They're out loose on (a few thousand acres) of pasture." The fun begins.
After walking a lot, searching (my little corner of Arizona has a lot of riparian forest, even white goats are hard to find) one of the boys spots them.
They finally come partway to my call, but spot that I have strangers with me, uh oh. Goats don't like strangers. they know that strange people eat goats. They turn back. So, I send the strangers to hide and go down, wade the river, almost losing my crocs in the mud. Several times.
I chase nineteen spooky goats back and forth for half an hour. Finally, I wear them out and get them turned the right direction (no thanks to my overexcited herding dog). Get them in the pen, still spooky, chase them down. They escape my rickety fence. We catch them again, get them all caught, and send the happy family, their three new goats and cute Great Pyrenees puppy, toward home.
Two hours have passed. I untie the herding dog (yes, Tater was grounded) and drink a half gallon of water (wishing it was five o'clock somewhere).
Next, I sit gratefully down to resume my argument with slow, rural,' closest neighbor is a half mile away and you live in a hole between the hills' internet. There might have been cussing. Okay, there was cussing. It always helps. The goat chasing is more fun than waiting on the internet gods,,,
The author page turns out beautiful, by the way. Funny, though,
how they say that writers need more exercise.
And my puppy buyer showed up. Okay, I walk out, call the puppy and take him out to his new boy. No problem, but then Pa, a good guy and repeat buyer who just drove two hundred miles to get here, says. "You sold all your goats?"
"Nope," I say. "They're out loose on (a few thousand acres) of pasture." The fun begins.
After walking a lot, searching (my little corner of Arizona has a lot of riparian forest, even white goats are hard to find) one of the boys spots them.
They finally come partway to my call, but spot that I have strangers with me, uh oh. Goats don't like strangers. they know that strange people eat goats. They turn back. So, I send the strangers to hide and go down, wade the river, almost losing my crocs in the mud. Several times.
I chase nineteen spooky goats back and forth for half an hour. Finally, I wear them out and get them turned the right direction (no thanks to my overexcited herding dog). Get them in the pen, still spooky, chase them down. They escape my rickety fence. We catch them again, get them all caught, and send the happy family, their three new goats and cute Great Pyrenees puppy, toward home.
Two hours have passed. I untie the herding dog (yes, Tater was grounded) and drink a half gallon of water (wishing it was five o'clock somewhere).
Next, I sit gratefully down to resume my argument with slow, rural,' closest neighbor is a half mile away and you live in a hole between the hills' internet. There might have been cussing. Okay, there was cussing. It always helps. The goat chasing is more fun than waiting on the internet gods,,,
The author page turns out beautiful, by the way. Funny, though,
how they say that writers need more exercise.
