Not so quick with the obvious

This past weekend, The Dad, The Daughters and I went to our little county fair.  The exhibits inside (my favorite part because I get to stock up on free candy and pencils!) were fun to look at, and we spent a good 20 minutes looking at the newly hatched quail and debating on whether or not the small one in the corner was dead or sleeping.  We decided on sleeping and The Dad and I walked away grateful that we were able to influence The Daughters in such a way that didn't result in them crying their lamentation and demanding the fair board give the little guy a proper buriel!


Once outside, The Daughters made rope and proceded to lasso a 90 year old woman on a walker.  Quickly, I confiscated the ropes and we made our way into the barn.  This is The Dad's favorite part.  Having grown up on a ranch where they raised cows and at one-time pigs and dogs and cats and other kinds of furry stock, he likes to take The Daughters around and tell them all about the various breeds and what the breeds are good for.  He's a great fair guide.

I, on the other hand, who grew up in a suburban development raising pregnant strays who followed me home, am a very boring fair person.

"Momma?  What kind of cow is that?"


"Black with white splotches."


"What's it do?"


"Makes sirloin steaks."

This Friday night, however, The Dad was distracted by a cow patty bingo game.  He had a whole dollar riding on the hopes that a white cow would indeep poop on the numbers 25 or 28 after all, so he stayed out trying to persuade Bella the white cow to let it all out somewhere in the late 20s.

"Momma?  What kind of cow is Bella?"


"White"


"Does she give us white milk?"


"And vanilla milkshakes!"


With The Dad financially planning for our bovine windfall, The Daughters and I made our way into the barn.  Our first stop was the cattle.  A few of the FFA kids had their prize calves out and let The Daughters pet them.  We made our way over to the lambs where The Daughters got to watch one lamb being sheared and were permitted to take home some of the clippings as souviniers.  (Oh goodie, said the germaphobic momma.)

At the far end of the barn, we came to the cleanest of all the animals (said the sarcastic momma), Poultry.  How can something that gives us such good, juicy breastmeat stink so bad?

Daughter 1, ever the smarty pants, read through every single card calling off the breed of chicken as we passed by each cage.  Daughter 2, ever the rebel, stuck her finger in every single cage tempting every breed of chicken to peck her finger.

Who said that??

Then a rooster crowed.  Daughter 2 stopped dead in her tracks and threw a hand up to her chest as if she were a 90-year-old woman who had just heard someone pass gas in church.  She said not one word, then finally breathed and walked on.

Again, a rooster crowed.  Daughter 2 audibly gasped and covered her mouth with one hand while cupping her other hand at her ear in an effort to possibly understand what the rooster was actually saying.  With her eyes bugging out like the eyes of the orange chicken we had stopped in front of, she turned to me and said, "What in the world..."  but was interupted by a rooster crowing for the third time.

"Oh.  My.  Word.  Momma, what was that noise?"  She asked me with all the confidence in the world on her face knowing that I'd have the answer for her.

"That was a rooster, Daughter 2."  I explained, knowing exactly what I was talking about and wondering just exactly what she thought it was.

"A rooster?"  she questioned.

"Yes."

"A rooster."  She confirmed.

"Yes."

"How ridiculous," she said with a condescending shake of her head.  "Who would even bring their pet rooster to a fair?"  Then she turned right on her heels and continued walking through the poulty.

Let's hope she never marries a farmer!