American Gothic 2.0

First, let me clear up the juicing mystery.  I am way past the Day 20 deadline that I had eagerly built up from my last post so I'm sure my legions of readers to this blog are on tenterhooks as to how I'm doing, how I'm faring and to what day I'm now aspiring.

Well.

Mea culpa.  I never made it past Day 19. 

I made it through Day 19, but not without discomfort. My head hurt and I really started to feel like that coyote I spoke of previously.  I lacked the energy I had seemed to possess before.  On Day 20, I juiced a pathetic few ounces out of some tomatoes, basil and garlic.  I drank that down and worried it wouldn't be enough to last through our first farm training session. 

Um, yes.  My husband and I are taking care of a hobby farm for some friends while they visit family in South Carolina.  Incidentally, we are nowhere near South Carolina, so if disaster strikes, it's not as though they can come back, save a goat, and then return to the festivities in time for dinner.  So, we are "training" to make damn sure disaster does NOT strike and everything goes perfectly. No hiccups.

So, we went out to the "hobby" farm and checked it all out.  It's about 20 acres, which is one hell of a hobby, I'm thinking.  They have cows. Pigs. Goats. Turkeys. Lambs. A Rooster. And one Rabbit.

Jesus.

First of all, we could not find that goddamn rabbit for love or money.  We arrived before our friends returned back from the farmers' market and we were checking things out.  I remembered the declaration, "Don't forget the rabbit. We forget the rabbit, and it's a bad deal. Don't forget the rabbit."

THEY forget the rabbit?

What does that mean?  I'm starting to feel bad for the rabbit.  But we couldn't find the damn thing.  We turned the barn upside down, when.....there it was.  In it's little hutch.  Camouflaged, as it is a velvety sable brown that blends into the shadows where the hutch is placed.

I'm in love.

And there is no place for love on the farm.  Let's see, we need names for our farmer friends.  Hmm.  Let's call them June and Johnny.  Because if my life has a soundtrack (and it does), then this is the part that gets "Ring of Fire" played during the movie.  I say there is no place for love on the farm because I learned in two VERY short days just how cruel nature (and farming) can be.  I got the warning from June before we came out that one of the pigs 'wasn't looking too good'.  Goddammit! No, no, no.  This was NOT going to happen on our watch.  I asked what that meant, because I am an animal LOVER.  I spend crazy ass amounts of money to take care of my two spoiled condo living cats.  I kept my beloved Basset hound alive for 15 and 1/2 years.

FIFTEEN AND A HALF YEARS.

I love them.  Am I painting the picture here?  I told June I would call my goddamn vet and spend $4000 and nurse that little pig back to health.  NO QUALMS.  I am very good at saving animals.  Really.  At which point she kindly explained that is not what they did on farms.  She smiled.  Gently.  I think she may have even touched my arm.  Gently.
I asked what they did.

And that's when she softly, gently asked, "How's Tomas with a .22?"

Gently.

WHAT?!  WHAT THE FUCK?!?

No, no, no.  Tomas is NOT anything with a .22.  And no, my husband's name is not Tomas.  But we've recently returned from Spain, so that's what I'm calling him today.  We'll change that as we go.  I like variety.  But I digress.

No, no, NO. NO ONE is shooting Wilbur.  I love pigs.  And when I saw the little pig in question, I knew, first of all, that it was the little pig in question.  He was too little. And too weak.  And too bony.  And too obviously ill. 

So, really, it should not have been any surprise to anyone that I just about did a face plant that day in the pasture.  Looking back, it was all just too much.  Too much heat.  Too much information.  Too much stress of seeing that little pig.  And too little water, too little energy and maybe too little oomph.  But I did just about take a nice swan dive out in that field--it was sheer will power that kept me upright until I could get my butt on a hay bale to sit down and drink some lovely imported bottled water.  That was refreshing and almost what the doctor ordered.

Almost. The full healing came later with a chicken leg.  Which is NOT the way to re-enter the eating world after fasting, but it was a tough day.
But overall, I think I'll be sticking with my primarily vegetarian diet with some chicken and seafood/fish thrown in.  I've lost my taste for pork and beef.

My little pig was gone the next day. 



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