This morning our breakfast was late. Far be it from me to say anything untoward, but this mystique surrounding the mecca that is the grain room is beginning to border on the ridiculous!
Yesterday was not a good day for the goatmother and the goatfather. Our old friend, Cookie the Blue Heeler, has doggie alzheimer's. It is, and has been, a great challenge for the goatmother and the goatfather. It has come to the point that yesterday the veterinarian was called out to the house. Let us just say that all day the goatmother was asking the Universe, God, the Force, whatever your view of a higher power, for a sign that this was the right thing to do. When the time came and the vet arrived, the goatmother could not do it - not yet. The time wasn't right. We'll try a few more things. There was no sign.
The vet was nice. He could come back. Besides, he went home with a very good bottle of Zinfandel.
So that was yesterday. This morning the goatmother got up and came to the barn to give us our breakfast. She walked into the barn, opened up the door to the grain room and something grayish-brown and furry fell on her head. Literally hit her on the top of the head, bounced off and fell to the floor. I think she nearly lost all her goat berries. At first she thought it was one of the highly intelligent, overly-friendly, death-defying mice that frequent the barn. She screamed and jumped back expecting the mouse to laugh, point a little foot at her and run like h---. well, fast. He didn't run. In fact, he looked kind of strange. So the goatmother looked more closely and the *mouse* had what!? - wings! Oh, no! This can't be! Yes, the goatmother had opened the door to the grain room and a bat fell on her head.
Now the goatmother has a very hard head and so the bat was stunned. He lay on the floor and spread his wings and opened his little bat mouth no doubt reading her the riot act in squeaky bat language for disturbing his rest. I really wouldn't know since I don't speak *bat*, but I can well imagine. So the goatmother at first thought, "Oh my! A bat! Rabies!" But then remembering the class she and the goatfather had taken about bats, she remembered that, in fact, very few bats carry rabies and they are really very clean little creatures. After that class, the goatfather had laboriously built a lovely bat condo and hung it on the side of the shop hoping to attract nice little bats to eat all those pesky, vampiric little mosquitoes that fly about in the summer. That was 2 years ago, and as far as we know, no self-respecting bat has bothered to move in. No doubt because they've all been going to the barn.
So, remembering, as well, that bats are helpless when on the ground, the goatmother went to the house and consulted with the goatfather about what to do with the bat. They came back, got the bat on a dust pan and tried to launch him into the air. Of course, being broad daylight, the bat extended his wings but merely floated to the ground. Lunar Launch One had failed. Finally, they decided to take him out to the old chicken coop and put him up on one of the high shelves with the window open. "We'll go back tomorrow and see if he is still there."
Now in your life, have you ever known anyone who had a bat fall on their head? Me either. I mean last year the goatmother was sitting outside and a bird landed in her lap. It sat there and looked at her for awhile, and then it flew off. But this was a bat - quite a different kettle of fish if you ask me. Besides, the bird was a Pine Siskin - not high on the scale of bird intelligence. So the goatmother thought, "Hmmm...I asked for a sign. This is unusual. This must be a sign!. Trouble is, I don't understand it. Really, God, a bat?! What kind of a sign is that?"
Which all goes to prove that even God has a sense of humor.