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The Newsletter >
Operation Clean Sheath
May 7, 2008
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 penis 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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