Margaritaville’s Jimmy Buffett—as wildly popular as he is—never
had a chart-topping record until he collaborated with country star Alan
Jackson. The mix of sand-in-his-sandals Buffett and 10-gallon-hat Jackson
teamed for “It’s Five O’clock Somewhere,”
which became a monster hit for both.
Our menagerie of
farm animals don’t know what an afternoon cocktail is, but they know when it’s 5
o’clock, more or less. That’s when they hear the gravel crunching in the lane
leading up to the barn. The llamas are the first to lift their heads. A beep,
beep of my truck’s horn tunes up a chorus of miniature donkeys. The
braying puts Maggie, our big mule, in a trot from the far corner of her
pasture.
Feed-up time is
my “margarita.” Especially in the worst of hectic days, I look forward to “5
o’clock” on the farm. Even if I have more work to do, a short reprieve around
the barn lifts my spirits.
The animals are divided into four pastures
that channel to four separate stalls in the barn. They all come running except
Kickapoo. The miniature paint horse is coy to the end-of-the-day commotion. But
when she shows up, in her fancy prance, the little mare welcomes a scratch
behind the ears.
The exact
opposite is our hard-working trio of barn cats—Rascal, Bubba and Sista. At the
first beep, they race, cheetah-like, to be the first to greet me. Until
Mama Cat showed up, two years ago, with her litter, I never thought I’d be a
feline fan. I’ve been a dog lover, and I still am. But I admit, there’s plenty
of love for the cats, too.
Mama was
assigned to the storage barn, and her now-grown kittens are across the way with
the menagerie. Besides being on around-the-clock mouse patrol, Rascal, Bubba
and Sista are my official greeters. They roll in gravel, waiting for me to pick
them up and scratch behind their ears, too.
I mentioned
our donkeys. There’s Jenny, Prissy, Charlie, Spanky, Otis, Thelma and Louise. Spanky
and Otis are the spokesmen for the herd. If I’m too slow feeding them, the
father-and-son duet start a screeching cry. Yep, I have spoiled the whole
bunch. (Once upon a time, we had cows, goats, turkeys and chickens, too.)
The queen of
the barn is Maggie, an 18-year-old mule that came to the farm as a just-weaned
colt. She is red and extra tall and sports black stockings. I can’t tell you
how many guests have said, “She’s the prettiest mule that I’ve ever seen.”
Laugh if you will. But let Maggie snuffle an apple—with her velvet lips—from
your palm, and she’ll win your heart, too.
Yes, sir.
The world is
upside down right now. No matter how frustrating these times are, I don’t need
a margarita. But I do thank Jimmy and Alan for reminding me that “it’s five
o’clock somewhere.” Time to kick back and exhale, even if you don’t drink.
And for me,
it’s time to go to the barn and commune with our critters.
dnesmith@cninewsapapers.com
