Seriously. They are big fluffy wonderful brats. Here’s why.
My cousin (one of the few with whom I am still close after everything that has gone wrong) and I drove to Tennessee this last weekend to pick up a new buck. For the record, when the GPS says that it will be about an 8 hour drive, add an hour for every three, because fuel and potty and food stops. Here’s how the weekend went.
Nearly 11 hours (and two tanks of gas, and a couple of decent roadside stop meals, and a tour of Dixie Caverns because why not) after leaving Maryland, we pulled into a truck stop in Tennessee to sleep for the night. I’ve got my truck set up so that the bed of the truck makes a pretty decent campsite for one, but that meant one of us was sleeping in the cab. I decided to sleep cramped up because even though I’m a full size human, my cousin is actually bigger than I am and would have had an even harder time of it. Plus it let me keep my aching knees better cushioned in a semi-armchair position. We were woken up not by the car that apparently crashed into the diner during the night (we saw the damaged wall and heard the story from the wait staff the next morning) but by the cold. Condensation from my breath had frozen solid on the inside of the windows overnight. It was cold.
Still, I think I might be up for taking a multi-week tour of America by truckstop. In summer.
We picked up the new buck from his farm after flirting with the dangers of gravity up and down and around and suddenly turned back around 40 degree (and less) turns to get there. He led out by a horn with no complaints, tolerated being put up into the truck without a whimper, and wandered around the back of the truck munching straw for the next eleven hours without any complaints. He looks like a gazelle with a curly goat beard. He’s really quite pretty, and very tame. I got a good look at both of his parents and I feel good about adding him to my herd. There’s only one problem with him. The lady that owned him named him Whitefootsies. I kid you not. He knows it’s his name, too. I now have an impressive young buck who is looking to finish out every bit as big as the beast I’ve got now… and his name is Whitefootsies. Because he has white markings on his lower legs. Whitefootsies. Seriously. It was all I could do not to facepalm when I heard it.
But all of this is merely proof that I have had a busy weekend that took me far away from the farm. This does not explain why my does are brats.
My does are brats because I was only barely out of Maryland before I got a text that two of the three who were expecting had dropped their kids. I wasn’t even gone a whole hour. Brats. It gets worse, because the other doe had hers first thing the next morning, about the same time we were trying to unfreeze our feet in the diner that someone tried to turn into a drive-through. My does are brats. Wonderful, strong, clever brats.
Here are the requisite pictures.