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Blessed are ye that weep now:
For ye shall laugh.
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I STAND IN THE TINY butchering barn wondering how many more times I’ll need to use this place to get Rancher what he needs. Just last night, he asked me if I thought we should take the roof off and throw in solar paneling. He’s thinking of making it into a greenhouse for seedlings or even just a place to grow the herbs we use for seasoning.
It pains me not to be able to encourage him. For now, that’s just not possible. I’ve blamed it on money, which isn’t a lie. We don’t have any. But at any other time, I’d love his plan. While the sanctuary is up and running just fine, it doesn’t exactly pay the bills.
We charge $5 a person for families and groups from schools to come in and tour the place. In the chicken and duck pens, which is how this all began with Lucy, kids pay ten cents for an ice cream cone filled with grain we’d feed the animals anyway. They can walk in, feed them, touch them, and pet them.
I’m not sure I like that. I know I wouldn’t want to be petted. But you pick your battles. Eventually, when we have our roots in deeper with the sanctuary, we will close down the petting gates and make the property more of a walk-through type place. Walking paths, greenery, that kind of thing. Just people who want to co-exist with the animals, rather than gawking at them. I think we can get there. Baby steps, I guess.
Tonight’s plan is to work on a formal business plan. We’ve tried before and got down enough to shut the grant writers up. Funding has been trickling in slowly, but now we need to nail down the future of the sanctuary more than ever. Everything feels too uncertain. I don’t like it.
Just last week, we had three calls for dairy bulls of no use to anyone. We agreed to take them on, of course, but feeding them in the best of hay seasons is quite expensive at $4 a bale.
We’ve considered putting down a bid on property abutting the neighbor’s yard. I wish I could tell Rancher that Ginny’s property will be available soon. For now, I can at least keep it in the back of my mind.
My eye catches on a dark brown spot in the corner of the barn by the cutting block. I thought I’d mopped it up. I can’t be sure if it’s leftovers from the pigs or Ginny. As much as it hurts, I hope it’s the first. A missing person’s report has gone out on her and police have been around her yard too much for comfort. So far, though, we haven’t had much more than general inquiries as to her daily habits and routines.
I think, when they see Rancher open the door slowly and pale from his disease, they think nothing of us. We don’t exactly look like prime candidates to commit murder. I mean, Christ, everyone knows the crazy people at the end of Cypress Drive don’t eat meat. They call us freaking tree huggers.
Vegan