Wasted grasses

Grass is wasted on this human.

A terrible injustice has been done to the grazing animals of Bent Barrow Farm.

This weekend, the humans left us all in the care of the next door neighbors and they went away. We were not invited. They were gone overnight.

When they came back, they brought photographic evidence of a great betrayal! They went, it seems, to a delicious and verdant meadow full of delectable edibles. They did not invite me, Fenway Bartholomule.

FarmWife tells me that it was a long, hot drive to Tonasket and that I would not have liked being hauled over the mountain passes for one short overnight visit to our dearly departed* friends The Chicken People. She also says that the grass is greener on my side of the mountains, but I say my grass is not nearly so tall or so interesting as THAT grass. I tell her I would have loved the trip. Every mile. Every bite.

She tells me that perhaps we can go next summer, and perhaps I can come, and that perhaps I can eat the grasses in exchange for carrying her down the scenic, pine-dotted byways of the Okanogan Highlands. I have agreed to these terms, and so we have called it pax.

FenBar

*departed from Wickersham, not from this earthly existence.