Back in the barnyard

I'm still here in the barnyard and all I can say is I'm sure glad I don't have to step over any cow pies. I'm not much of a farm gal. I don't mind a nice little petting zoo, but I'm not interested in rubbing shoulders--or any other of my body parts--with cows and pigs and chickens.

I'm pretty sure my cousin Gary is the reason for my dislike of all-things-farm. When I was growing up in southern California, my aunt and uncle had a small farm east of town and we used to go visit. That was before freeways, so we had to travel on surface streets--which usually prompted my sister and I to sing several verses of Are We There Yet?
Cousin Gary, who was a few years older than I, had a flock of chickens, a donkey and a couple of goats. He was also quite fond of practical jokes. On one of our visits, I took a walk out near the goat pen where he was milking a goat. And it wasn't long before I felt something warm dripping down my face. Gary had sprayed me with goat milk. That was the last time I set foot on a farm, as best I can remember.

I'm not averse to sewing farm animals though. They have no threatening bodily functions nor do they smell. They don't attract flies and bugs either. I can decide to put one on if I so choose--which I did on this cow. See the ladybug on his neck scarf? This particular embellishment was added to cover up a hot glue spill. No one will every know.

Now that I think of it, there was one good thing about those old visits to the farm. My uncle always made peach ice cream in his hand-crank ice cream freezer. I've always been a sucker for ice cream, especially homemade, so I was always first in line for a dishful. Unless, of course, goat boy was nearby.