Dear Readers,
   
    Please be advised that the following is rated PG for graphic farm related humor. If the thought of animals in all their barn yard—uh hum—glory makes you nervous don’t read this.  Don’t even think about reading this. Don’t even think about thinking about reading this, and although I will make every attempt to relate the following tale of farming high jinks in a non-offensive, vanilla sort of way, I can’t promise that something icky might not leak out.

    My husband and I are what’s known as hobby farmers. We have six acres in Saint Cloud, Florida. We have three horses, a dog, and a cat. We don’t raise corn, or soy beans, or veal.  A hobby farm is a lot like a black hole—stuff (like money) goes in but nothing (like money) comes out. 
   
     My husband has a real job. He fiddles around with computer related stuff during the week and makes money.  I have a real job. I fiddle around with words on paper.  I barely make enough money to pay for the paper.  We play farm on the weekends by mowing, chopping, digging, burning, nailing,  pressure washing, and sheath cleaning.   And now more about sheath cleaning . . .

    One of our horses is an old broken-down gelding in an advanced stage of decay, or as I like to say he has two good legs, one bad leg, and one hoof on a banana peel. Sonny is a rescue horse and he used to be a boy horse, but now he’s a gelding with a really, really, high pitched whinny and “sheath” issues.   Here’s how the “sheath” conversation goes on our hobby farm.

    “Honey,” I say to my husband, “I think that it’s time to clean Sonny’s sheath.”

    “Sonny’s what?” My husband is newer to the wonderful world of gelding anatomy than I am.

    “His sheath,” I repeat. “Think, sword and scabbard.”

    “Scabbard!  Sheath!  What are you talking about?”
   
    “You know the thing that the sword goes into—the scabbard—you know, the thing that protects the sword.”  I pantomimed putting an invisible sword into an invisible scabbard.  “Sonny’s scabbard/sheath needs cleaning.”  

    Frown lines creased my husband’s forehead as he pondered all the potential symbolic sword related possibilities. The slow light of understanding crept with horror into his face.  He looked at the old grouchy excuse of a  horse napping in the shade next to the barn, and said, “You can’t possibly mean . . .” He bit his lip, the hint of a tear in his eye. “That someone has to reach up and . . . clean . . . inside his . . .with what . . . and how . . . and more importantly for the love of all that’s decent, why!”

    “Because boy horses can get waxy ick if you don’t clean their . . .”

    “Yeah, yeah, sword holder.” His sarcasm was a bit waxy. “ I get it.”  Sonny slapped at one boney hip with his tail.

    “Now there are a couple of ways that you can do this.  You can wait until he goes to the bathroom and drops his . . .”

    “I am not standing out here waiting for that old grump to pee.”

    “Or you can go up in there and grab it.”  The horror spread from my husband’s face to his entire body.  His hands flew to his mouth.  “Clean it with what?”

    “Well I’ve seen people use Vaseline, or warm soapy water, or . . .”  Sonny decided at that very moment to drop his sword and urinate.  I yelled, “Hurry Sherwood, run for the Vaseline.”  He froze like a hunted rabbit.  “Hurry man, now’s our chance.”  I rolled up my sleeves.  Sherwood turned and stumbled toward the barn like a man planning to boil water for an emergency birth on the kitchen table.  “And Sherwood,” I yelled.  He paused, looking back. “Don’t forget the rubber gloves.”

    He didn’t.

    The moral of this week’s story is that if you’re going to pick a hobby be sure that you have all the proper equipment—handy, and that all hobbies have their down side. Or if you’re not prepared to clean a sheath now and again then make sure that you only buy  mares—girl horses that tend to become a bit temperamental when they’re in “season.”   You know "in season" like when spring comes and animals get twitterpated . . .  oh forget it.  Look it up.

    Linda (Down on the Farm) Zern 

         

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