Work Farm

Our place has turned into a prison work farm. Yesterday, everyone was breaking rocks, hauling rocks, laying rocks, or raking gravel.

Leonce the ancient neighbor is building a little shepherd’s hut.
The Progeny is helping him.
The Husband was raking the gravel that was just delivered over the driveway where the asphalt was ripped out.
James, the Guest, was helping the husband.

The dogs just sat and watched them sweat.

Blanche has huge udders but seems disinterested in going through the birthing process. I walk out every few hours, lift up her tail, and give her a pep talk.

Beau’s cuddle therapy has been a little too successful. Every time I walk out into the field, he comes trotting up to me to be petted. If I ignore him, or don’t pet him long enough, he butts me. His little horn nubs really hurt.

I don’t mind giving him a back massage, except I come away smelling like a sheep . . . and if I rub his back too long, he gets aroused and, well the results are rather gross.

Yes, this is my life here in France. I have a French lover . . . but it’s a sheep. I have a second house . . . but it’s a shepherd’s shack. The glamour I’ve sought all my life, still eludes me.