Since my freelance writing job is basically full time now, I decided to put notice in at my city job. It was only two afternoons a week, but between the long commute and the inclement weather making it even longer, it just didn’t make financial sense to keep doing it. I do miss the opportunity to talk to people about all the mundane things office folk chitter about, which, to be honest, was the only reason I got a job outside the house to begin with.

So now when I need a break from writing, I wander around the house, starting random conversations with Gene or waxing philosophical to the dogs, both of whom are usually snoring right next to my desk. Did people really darn socks back in the day? Our socks always get holes underneath, so wouldn’t it hurt to stand on the stitches? Where do the turtles go in the winter, and do you think they’re cranky when they wake up? Why are those pesky Asian beetles so attracted to my desk?

These are conversations worth having, and yet Gene keeps finding reasons to disappear outside.

But on the plus side, now I have more time to do things like help him get firewood. Today he brought me to a stand of birch that required 4 wheel drive to access, and I may or may not have had a near panic attack at the overall condition of the “road”. It’s fairly remote, and he said there were wolf tracks all over the place and I should probably bring my gun. I assured him I’d watched that Liam Neeson movie twice, and took notes both times. Since I’m now fully schooled in the art of punching a wolf, I was a little disappointed that we didn’t actually get to see one.

I was probably making a bit too much noise, as I got to chop all the rounds that Gene cut for me after dropping the trees. I discovered I’m excellent at making kindling, but sadly not on purpose. Occasionally I’d miss the log completely and bury the ax blade to the hilt in the ice, other times I’d miss with the blade but take a direct hit on the handle. F-bombs were plentiful, which is why we didn’t see so much as a Jaybird.

But yay for kindling!

As I look outside at the fresh 10″ of snow, I’ve come to a realization. I tend to go a bit cray cray around this time of the year. Every time I find myself looking out the window, even if it’s at something totally cute like a puffed up Jaybird or a happily munching deer, in my mind I’m seeing butterflies hovering around daisies and fat bumble bees buzzing across the green grass towards bright yellow sunflowers.

Then the snow plow goes by with a tremendous screech and it’s back to winter again. Sigh. I’ve found recharging in the sunbeam that hits the couch helps, although I learned the hard way it’s best done when Gene’s home so a five-minute break doesn’t turn into a 3-hour nap and an almost-missed deadline.

A little retail therapy doesn’t hurt, either, in the form of seeds. For Valentine’s Day Gene let me place my seed order without supervision, so I’m impatiently waiting for orders from no less than 5 of the nation’s finest nurseries to arrive. I’ve also been adding to Gene’s spring to-do list, which is currently topped with “build Monarch habitat for lovely wife who never asks for much”.

Now I’m not one to air drama on the Internet, but I’m mightily displeased at the direction my Save The Monarchs project is taking. My grand plans have been downgraded as follows: Monarch hatching facility → building → structure → large screened in box. And Gene walked past my latest set of sketches muttering something about “no benches in the box.” Marriage is all about compromise, so if he promises to build me a bench inside it, I’ll quit pestering him to make it recline.

In other news, I haven’t been headbutted into the barn wall by the baby goat lately. But before I let my ego get *too* puffed up, it’s largely because I slam the stall door in her face before she can follow Cocoa into the milking area. Milking is pain free, but nowhere near relaxing. It’s hard to be present in the moment when there’s a raging goat on the other side of the wall, making her displeasure known to all who reside within a three-mile radius. Plus, she’s like dolphin-level smart. I have to open the stall door to close the outer barn door, and she gives me this “I’m so cute, don’t you want to pet me?” look and then she’ll just stand there while I close up the gates. Then I turn around, and at the exact moment I realize she’s between me and the other door – she charges. She’s like that kid from The Omen, only pointier. I’ve taken to Googling “Is goat bacon a thing”.

I used to really enjoy milking. I’d look forward to it – leaning my head against Cocoa’s soft back, feeling her breathe and the listening to the milk splashing into the jug. She has a very pleasing scent, considering she’s a goat. Kind of like a mix of hay and cinnamon. Plus, now that the milking station is inside and out of the wind, it’s downright toasty in the barn. So milking used to be my favorite chore.

No doubt you’ve picked up on the past tense. Cocoa’s daughter Mocha has decided to declare war. On me. It partly has to do with the configuration of the milking station – Cocoa is up on the platform, so she has access to both the top of the hay feeder (where she can shove her entire head into the flake), and she has her own bucket of grain.

The platform is up against the stall wall, so unfortunately milking Cocoa also means I’m standing between Mocha and the most delicious food any goat has ever had. Despite the fact that she’s got the same exact grain in her own food dish, the whole situation is no bueno as far as Mocha is concerned.

Her horns are pointy, and she likes to aim for my knees – probably because they’re conveniently at her head level. Or worse, she’ll rear up and go for a much bigger target. She’s a fat little thing, and she has some heft. I daresay she’s a force to be reckoned with. She’s even taken to hiding under the milking platform, and suddenly erupting from her cave like one of those creepy moray eels in every underwater nature documentary ever. She thinks it’s grand sport to try and ram me when I’m carrying both milking containers and can’t fight her off without spilling them.

Gene says I should just shut her in the other stall while I milk Cocoa, but that seems like the equivalent of caving in and buying your kid the Snickers bar in the checkout line. It solves the immediate problem, but doesn’t address the underlying issue. My first strategy was reasoning with her, which generally took the form of me braying, “You want some of this? Bring it!” which she, unfortunately, took as an invitation to consider it brung.

Then I decided I had to establish myself as the alpha goat by simply grabbing her by the horns, throwing her to the ground, and pinning her there until she respected my “authoritay”. Great idea in theory. In practice… let’s just say I have to work my way up several Greek letters before reaching Alpha status. Baby steps.

At least the deer like me. I’ve almost got one of the yearlings eating out of scoop, and if I take too long feeding the chickens they’ll practically follow me into the pole barn to remind me they’re starving. Now there’s 11 deer that show up like clockwork, and walking out of the coop to find all of them standing in the driveway staring at me is still a little disconcerting.

I’m really excited for spring, because I happened to look out my office window the other day and see the buck and one of the does getting up to the kind of shenanigans that perpetuate the species, so I’m hoping she’ll feel comfortable enough to bring her fawn to the feeding station. It will no doubt be the most photographed fawn in history.