The Llama leads the sheep in from the pasture for the night. I am taking clothes off of the line. They’re not completely dry but 60% chance of rain in the forecast for tomorrow and no doubt a heavy dew tonight anyway, so I squeeze the wooden clothes pins and make a neat pile in the basket leaving plenty of air between the fabric. I won’t be putting them away tonight. I knew this as I turned the washer on this morning.
Sadie spies a Deer on the far end of the pond. The dear spies her , then us and makes a run for it. Sadie barks wildly hopping and jumping in place but Ginger and Cosmo just watch in silence. Its dusk and I can hardly make out the long elegant legs. Just a fast tan tall graceful blur and then gone, leaving behind the normal back drop of leaves, grass, trees, and the now dark sultry shimmer of the pond.
I listen to the goats chew their cud and settle down for the night, each finding the best place on the hay pile to bed down. The air is silent. I can’t hear any crickets or frogs or even the persistent shrill of the ancient mysterious cicada. The only sound I hear is the low and high hums of “historic” as I now always refer to it out of an adopted sense of pride ”route 66”.
The Deer has come back. I see it. I look over at the dogs. The Pyrenees watch it but say nothing and then Sadie alerts me, them, us. We all just look at her. She looks at me with pleading eyes that say, “Madam, perhaps the Deer is a threat to us, perhaps it will come up here and harm us in a most terrifying way, are you sure you don’t want to take heed of my warnings?” She gets her answer and bring her ball close for me to kick. Were all quiet now, just watching. Soon light creeps away leaving us only to see shadows and blackness in the trees.
I’m on my own for dinner tonight so I’ll pull out the beef liver I save for such occasions. (no one else here appreciates liver ) I’ve a craving for pasta so I’ll boil up some penne and sauté chunks of liver lightly dredged in seasoned flour, with caramelized onions, garlic and I’ll deglaze the pan with Balsamic(I do not have sweet Marsala which would be better but I’ll make due) and a touch of pasta water, throw a good pinch of rosemary and goat milk cream and then toss it with the penne and some parm and butter. I like it.
Tomorrow is market but I’ve got to go to the live stock sale to try to sell five sweet buckling that I’ve become way too attached to. I’ll be alone which is good because we all have come to love these little boys but…… hell, we don’t need them and ……they are a pain in the ass! OK but…. They are really sweet. Ya can’t keep em’ all, some ol’ wise person once said, and we kept these longer than we should have in the first place. But I will miss them. Wait. I will miss some things about them. There!
The crickets are singing now, and the sound of the road is fading. Time to go in. 4 am will be here sooner than ya know it.