Posted on

In which I bleed for my goats.

A few days ago, Daniel and I moved the goat fence. This is not as weird as it sounds, with seven goats and a relatively small area for them to graze we’re more or less using a managed intensive grazing method by default. So what we use is ElectroStop netting from Premier1 Supplies, plus an energizer for it that puts out about 5,000 volts or more than enough zap to deter goaties from going through the fence. Although Siri did figure out how to get under at one point, but we’ve got that licked.

Anyway, the fence posts have spikes at the bottom to stick into the dirt, which means the timing of moving the fence is complicated by things like “has there been recent rain, so that the ground is not comparable in hardness to concrete and therefore impossible to drive a spike into?”. Which means that although the fence has needed to be moved for a while, we haven’t been able to move it as the ground hasn’t had a good soaking. Luckily we got a couple, and went merrily out to move the fence.

It all went very well until I found a tick crawling on me during a shade-and-water break, at which point I kind of a did a bizarre flailing thing that brought the side of my right arm into contact with an edge on the milk crate I was sitting on (I know, I didn’t realize plastic milk crates had sharp edges, either) at just the right (or possibly wrong) angle and suddenly I’m bleeding like a stuck pig and possibly requiring stitches.

Since we don’t have medical insurance anymore and doctors are expensive and I’m up to date on my tetanus boosters anyway, I didn’t get stitches. I did however come inside, clean the thing with multiple antiseptic agents, and then get Daniel to tape it shut with Bandaids before we wrapped it with a big gauze pad (all right, fine, it was actually an enormous “overnight” maxi pad from a pack I bought last time Tink needed bandaging) and an ace bandage for pressure to stop the bleeding.

The bleeding at least did stop once there was pressure on it, although after I showered it thought about starting up again. I’m liable to have a funky scar there, but oh well, my husband digs chicks with scars. And then my husband refused to let me go help him finish moving the goat fence on the grounds that I’d start bleeding again and possibly bleed to death right there on the back acre, and he was not going to deal with that on top of the heat and the humidity, because a dead wife is a pain in the ass. He has a point, I guess.

But let this be a lesson to you, gentle readers: ticks and milk crates do not mix. Also, stay up to date on your tetanus shots.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.