J&H’s shit-wagon has a tilting bed that helps with the emptying thing, but it doesn’t have anything like brakes. So you have to find just the right spot to park it, or you’ll be industriously shoveling shit ten feet away while the whole thing rolls merrily down a hill until it crashes into a fence. Most of the fences are electric.
I had the wagon precariously parked in just such a spot when Comet came along, latched on to the rear with his teeth, and gave it a tug. At first he wasn’t bothered when it rolled toward him; that was the whole idea. Then it started to pick up speed on its own, and he wanted out of the way right frickin’ now. He’ll be two years old next month, and still has some growing up to do.
Felice is as love-starved as ever, which makes her enjoyable but time-consuming to work around. She doesn’t like it when you turn your back on her, and it’s likely to earn you a lovely firm head-butt between the shoulder blades.
I’m using this wonderful warm snap to get as much outdoor work in as possible before it socks in again, so I brought the tractor to shit-shoveling. Resculpted the primary shit-hill, then grabbed a load for Ian’s future use. Naturally, the longest leg of the trip is against a head-wind. I don’t mind working with rotted shit but I object to breathing it. Fortunately this is one of several reasons why Uncle Joel always tries to make sure he’s packing a clean bandanna. If opportunity presents, I can always pause work while I hold up a stagecoach.