Little S loves all God's Creatures. Frequently our walks stop so that she can point out an ant and attempt to kiss it. It is a habit she repeats for just about any living thing that breathes.
Still, she has her favourites: animals whose sound she can mimic are the best. So a trip to the petting farm seemed such a good idea.
She clucked at the hens, moo-ed at the cows, oinked at the pigs and beeped at the geese. She was a bit baffled by the rabbits, but then so am I when it comes to establishing a suitable sound for them. We settled on "Hop Hop" which I'm sure will cause her all sorts of linguistic confusion when she discovers the laws of grammar.
The highlight of the trip was to feed the lambs. Lovely little lambs. Gentle little lambs. Or Woolly Maniacs as I think they should be more accurately named. It was a bit of shock.
I had noticed how frisky the flock became as we assembled around the pens. And how the lambs started to baa loudly as we sat on the hay bales and the farm hands gave us feeding bottles of warm milk. I wondered if they knew what was coming. They almost certainly had a better idea than us.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" asked T as I cradled S on my lap trying to wrest the milk bottle from her lips.
'Don't worry,' I replied, 'What possible risk could there be?'
Now I've never sat beneath a dam before it's burst, opened the doors on the first day of the Christmas Sales at Next or been tied to a post and offered as a sacrificial virgin to a rabid horde of cannibals but I believe the next few minutes gave me an insight into those experiences.
The lambs exploded out of their pens.
We sat half way down the barn. Pity the poor folk closest to the gate. They disappeared under an avalanche of wool.
Dimly, I heard T scream. I, of course, kept calm. Or was paralysed by fear, depending on your perspective.
The first lamb to reach us tore the bottle from S's hands. Foolishly, I tried to hold on to mine. Three or four of the blighters tried to drag me to the ground. I held S above the melee with one hand and fought the wild animals with the other. They jumped, I ducked; they kicked, I parried; they butted, I winced; they bleated, I whimpered. They were too strong. I couldn't keep hold of both. I let go.
The baby sheep tumbled away like a cloud in a gale.
"They're just playing." laughed the farmer from the safety of his tractor cab.
T stood shaking behind a low wall of hay. She plucked S from me. I smiled weakly.
Really, these animals should have a health warning on them. Or mint sauce.
Still, she has her favourites: animals whose sound she can mimic are the best. So a trip to the petting farm seemed such a good idea.
She clucked at the hens, moo-ed at the cows, oinked at the pigs and beeped at the geese. She was a bit baffled by the rabbits, but then so am I when it comes to establishing a suitable sound for them. We settled on "Hop Hop" which I'm sure will cause her all sorts of linguistic confusion when she discovers the laws of grammar.
The highlight of the trip was to feed the lambs. Lovely little lambs. Gentle little lambs. Or Woolly Maniacs as I think they should be more accurately named. It was a bit of shock.
I had noticed how frisky the flock became as we assembled around the pens. And how the lambs started to baa loudly as we sat on the hay bales and the farm hands gave us feeding bottles of warm milk. I wondered if they knew what was coming. They almost certainly had a better idea than us.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" asked T as I cradled S on my lap trying to wrest the milk bottle from her lips.
'Don't worry,' I replied, 'What possible risk could there be?'
Now I've never sat beneath a dam before it's burst, opened the doors on the first day of the Christmas Sales at Next or been tied to a post and offered as a sacrificial virgin to a rabid horde of cannibals but I believe the next few minutes gave me an insight into those experiences.
The lambs exploded out of their pens.
We sat half way down the barn. Pity the poor folk closest to the gate. They disappeared under an avalanche of wool.
Dimly, I heard T scream. I, of course, kept calm. Or was paralysed by fear, depending on your perspective.
The first lamb to reach us tore the bottle from S's hands. Foolishly, I tried to hold on to mine. Three or four of the blighters tried to drag me to the ground. I held S above the melee with one hand and fought the wild animals with the other. They jumped, I ducked; they kicked, I parried; they butted, I winced; they bleated, I whimpered. They were too strong. I couldn't keep hold of both. I let go.
The baby sheep tumbled away like a cloud in a gale.
"They're just playing." laughed the farmer from the safety of his tractor cab.
T stood shaking behind a low wall of hay. She plucked S from me. I smiled weakly.
Really, these animals should have a health warning on them. Or mint sauce.
We took my niece to a similar petting zoo, just with goats.
They are pretty mental and liked headbutting things. Especially the larger, fully horned goats. Which, also, had some how gotten out of the pens and where just roaming around the whole of the farm
Posted by: Robbie | Saturday, 31 May 2008 at 09:34 AM
Sounds like a grand day out, Robbie! Did your niece survive without mental or other scarring?
c
Posted by: Carlton | Tuesday, 03 June 2008 at 04:51 PM