Dispatches from the County VIII: Farm Animals

Near our place there is a modest farm with goats, chickens, a sheep my son refers to as Fluffball. We call this place Tamagoya-san, Japanese for Egg Shop.

At the bottom of his long property, the farmer puts out a colourful flag, the word OPEN across it, when there are eggs for sale. On family walks we look eagerly for that flag, both for the eggs that will taste stupendous in everything my wife makes, as much as for the excuse to visit Fluffball and friends.

The baby goats cute, the big guy goats kind of awesome when they morph from mellow grazing goats to MMA horn-crashing motherf***rs. And then there is Fluffball, amusing in name alone. He’s none too social that one. The farmer neither. But the chickens, footloose and range-free, like to congregate round when we come to drop our money in the tin left for that purpose. I’m always happy to chat with them, the chickens I mean. Small talk mostly. Hey guys, I’ll say, with no little bit of enthusiasm. The eggs I’ve just purchased thanks to them after all. Still, I find the conversation never goes much deeper than that.