Last night the owner of this establishment informed me that this weekend he and his girlfriend are going to go to Napa to acquire a lamb. This is not just any lamb, it’s a lamb chosen for its grass-tending abilities rather than its tasty legs.
Actually they are going to wander among the pregnant ewes and select which one they think will be a good mother. Two months from now, the lamb will arrive here still not completely weened. For the first six weeks, the lamb must stay indoors and be bottle fed. After that point, the lamb can roam the territory here — about three acres — frolicking with the chickens from the coop, the dogs and, I suppose, hiding from the raccoons and coyotes.
I’m equally amused and prematurely startled by the idea of coming out of my little jewel-like room/office to find the bleating baby wanting a bottle, or a frolic.
Hmm, wanting a bottle or a frolic . . . sounds like a few of my earlier boyfriends.
But I digress.
The particular breed of this lamb is a Romney. A Republican lamb. I told him I could put up with a lot of things, and have, but a Republican living among us (particularly when we have been flying the Communist flag on the flag pole at the front of the barn since the mid-term elections) is more than I can tolerate.
He said the lamb would be of no party or clique.
We shall see.