Stretching OUT!

What a day! I'm sure that we have all said that a time or two. Today hasn't been that eventful. At least not for me. I started my day by taking a long shower, cooking and eating cinnamon rolls, and talking to the Hound. Shelly on the other hand, got up early and fed the 50 plus dogs at the boss's house. Upon her return she and her new hired hand (Brother Dutch) zipped down to the barn to finish the daily chores which include feeding, watering of the new 90 or so sheep. Last week when Brother Dutch, was gone on vacation to sunny Florida last week, I helped with chores. I don't mind helping with chores, sometimes it's the only time Shelly and I have to spend with each other. I just don't like when I'm expected to do it, but that's a whole other rant. As I was feeding some of the stinky sheep, I noticed that a few had runny noses and cloudy eyes. I made mention to "Ranch Manager" Shelly of the symptoms. Shelly decided that we should treat with antibiotics in the water. So we poured the neon green goop in the water trough and that was that. Well today she rushes back up to the house and with a frantic, foaming at the mouth like attitude she tells me that the sheep are sick. Huh..(I use HUH a lot in response to a lot--just a sidebar) Shelly decides that the doc needs to come out, AGAIN. She just visited Phoenix yesterday to give rabies shots to dogs, and the day before to squeeze the puss out of an abscess on a boarder's horse. She seems to be here a lot lately. The Doc rearranges her schedule to come out and check out the woolly beasts. I am asked several times if I would like to come down to the barn and check things out. I decline. Asking me if I want to check out sick sheep is code for, "Wanna come rip your fingernails off in wool?" or "Wanna come down so we can get into a knock down drag out fight because I (Shelly) can't communicate?" So I'm sure any sane being would have made the same choice as I. Since the Boss is in the Springs, cruising around in her super cool Astro Van that smells like petrified dog poop and Twinkies that have been stored in old sweat socks, Shelly was left to try and separate a flock of sheep, sick from not so sick. Shelly does not have any of that "Border Collie Sense" in her "Ranch Manager" body. It's kind of funny when she tries to herd the flock of dog broke sheep. All it takes is a shake of a grain bucket and they will do anything that you want. Problem is, we've 90 or so new sheep that aren't dog broke or bucket broke. They pretty much give you the finger and tell you to F*$@ off in a BaaBaa dialect. Shelly does her best but only manages to get the dog broke sheep up into the catch pens. She, Brother Dutch and the Doc get started checking out symptoms. The Doc decides that the sheep have clamidia. That's right...Clamidia, or Chlamydia, you pick the spelling you prefer. The same STD that your health teacher warned you about. I'm racking my feeble brain trying to figure out who came to visit and stole away to infect my sheep when I wasn't looking. Apparently Chlamydia in sheep isn't quite the same as it is in humans. Well, it is still transmitted sexually or at least it can be. So Shelly has to sheep with symptoms away from the sheep with no symptoms, without the aid of a dog. When she has the sick sheep separated; she has to flop the poor things on their bum, slap some ointment on their eyes, put them back on all fours, listen to their lungs, and then get intimate with them to get a temperature. She only has to do this about 40 times, pretty easy day. Not me, as Shelly is down sticking thermometers up butts, I'm here in my chair. I'm trying to decide which program on television to watch. The one that takes John's side or the one on Kate's side. Who gave those people a license to have children? I wonder which one would be better at treating sheep with Chlamydia? Lots of things go through my head. I make a mental note to have Shelly wash thoroughly when she returns, I certainly don't need Chlamydia no matter what strain it is. I think about what I'm going to wear to the Salida High School Homecoming game on Friday night. I rid the wardrobe of purple a long time ago. I have a momentary flash of spraying a sweatshirt with the bandage stuff that we put on Hound's head when Izzy bit her last but decided just as quickly that it probably wouldn't work. In the end a purple spray bandage sweatshirt would just be stupid, not crafty. I decided to flip through channels and catch Will Ferrell licking white dog poo, which made me decide to flip the channel again quickly. I would have done so except my chair is not aligned so that the beamer works efficiently. So I get a flare of red and cuss at the remote, beat it on the arm of my chair until it moves to the next channel. My little tirade wakes up Hound dog who struggles to get up from her bed at the foot of my chair. As she gets to her feet she farts. Hound's gas problems are legendary, at least here in our home they are. The smell distracts me from channel surfing. I escape from my chair for a moment, if only to escape from the smell and refill my glass with tea. I return to my chair in time for the phone to ring. It's the Boss. She's wondering how everything is coming along down at the barn. I lie, as if I really know, and tell her it's great. I return to my chair, my computer, my T.V. and my glass of tea. Hound comes by and lays her flappy lipped head on my lap, grunts and decides to return to her bed. When she removes her head I notice a slobber spot. I'm up again to clean up Bloodhound saliva. As I'm cleaning up the spit, Shelly booms in the door. She's limping and is very dusty. I ask if she needs to go to the ER, she declines my offer of treatment. Shelly says that they have gotten all the sheep separated but it has become too dark to slap temperature indicators up bums so they have put off all other treatments until the morning. Then she asks what I have cooked for dinner. Humpf...the nerve, doesn't she know what kind of day I had?