One hundred thirty-one bales of hay in the yard,
one hundred thirty-one bales,
take one down pass it around,
one hundred thirty bales of hay in the yard.
I’m not winning any popularity contests with the humans around here this weekend after insisting the guys stock the barn with hay in all this heat and humidity. We were able to have it delivered but the wagon couldn’t fit back in the barn so we had to unload it in the driveway and then reload it into the pickup and back that in.
Once the pickup is inside the center section of the barn the driver has to shimmy out the window because it is such a tight squeeze. Then the bales have to be heaved up and into place in the lofts. It is hot, sweaty, sticky work.
Fortunately the day was interspersed with some comedic relief. Watching Thelma and Louise chase down “the lunch wagon” through the pasture was, well, priceless. The organically grown orchard grass hay met their approval to such a degree we ended up needing to lock them out of the barnyard so they wouldn’t get run over.
“Where are you going? I wanted a pastrami on rye.”