Hogs, Strippers, The Goat Bitch, and a Nice Jewish Girl

        Somebody recently told me you could make up to 10 grand per night as a stripper in North Dakota.  I’ll admit that stripping seemed better than what I was doing on the farm the moment twelve hogs charged me.  As distraction while Melvyn and Nate corralled five of them, I’d stepped into their pen with a bucket of grain. Picture 800 pound boars rising from their mud–shit wallow and hurdling towards you –– grunting and squealing.  If you don’t empty that bucket of feed in time and head for the hills, there’s a chance they’ll trample you to death. Death by Pig is a terrible way for anybody to go but is especially horrifying for a “nice, Jewish girl” like myself. I put “nice, Jewish girl” in quotations because, despite what my sister might have advertised me as to a Jewish friend in DC looking for love, I’m not that nice nor that Jewish. But still . . .  what would the Rabbi say? As the hogs charged, I wondered if this was God’s way of smiting me for eating pork ribs. Had I failed as a Jew? But, in the end, I stood my ground and made it out of the pig pen alive.

            Later, safely feeding the baby goats, I chuckled about the idea of becoming a stripper in North Dakota.  Over potentially feeding myself to boars while making little money working on a farm, would I ever choose to make bank feeding myself to the eyes of human, male pigs? Don’t worry, the answer is of course is not. Also, don’t worry; I’m not actually that judgmental towards either strippers or men who go to strip clubs in North Dakota.  If you’ve got the boobs and the confidence, why not? And if you’re a guy working in the oil industry over there, what else do you do? Plus pigs are pretty darn smart, so my comment isn’t necessarily insulting.

            I’ve decided I much prefer dealing with the baby goats than I do with hogs or humans of any age.  With them, the only injury I risk is minor scratches and bruises –– no death and no psychological strain. And they are always elated to see me. When I enter the barn to feed them, they actually get up off their asses and cheer (sounds like crying actually, but I choose not to look at it that way). What a lovely contrast from when you bring grown men food, and they don't even get up off the couch to greet or thank you. Anyhow, baby goats are total goofballs, and I enjoy interacting with them.

            But not with all the milkers. While almost every baby is cute and loving (they haven’t yet been molested too young by a Billy Goat), this is not the case with the grown-up goats.  The at once fantastic and challenging thing about the ladies is their different personalities –– the most marked three being the Bitches, the Sweethearts, and the Dummies. The standard Goat Bitch plays you hot–cold. She’ll kick the door to the milk parlor and butt it with her head –– banging to get in.  Then, once you open the door, she just stands there. Instead of trotting down to her station at the end of the walkway, she holds up goat traffic. She messes with your head. (Lack of psychological strain in working with goats is only applicable to taking care of the babies). Quit paying her attention, and she’ll take steps forward. Speak to or look at her again, and she’s out and you’re after her. (If you’re living life “to its fullest,” by the way, you’ll find yourself either chasing or being chased by animals of all kinds –– farm, wild, and domesticated). Anyhow, confusing the ladies behind her, the Goat Bitch’s erratic behavior makes them scatter in all directions (indoors). Then arises a new set of issues that I can sum up with only two words: GOAT MANIA!!!! I have nightmares about this. That and them growing fangs.

            A Goat Bitch can be so stubborn you have to drag her through the door by her neck or, if she's turned to run, her tail (and of course she's one of the biggest of all 190 goats, which means you’re hauling some serious ass . . . literally and figuratively). When you finally place the suction cups on her teats, the Goat Bitch takes a shit or kicks you with her hind legs. Then, when you’re done milking the round and trying to rout the girls out to pasture, she’ll stay munching on the grain. She'll milk this milking for everything its worth. Until you resume dragging her by neck or tail. I estimate that you can burn up to an extra 50 calories per Goat Bitch, which, as an exercise addict, is satisfying and the only way I don’t let any of them “get my goat.” Still, I know which goats I’d sacrifice to God if I had to. I don’t have too much to say about the Sweethearts and the Dummies other than that they lag too, but it’s tolerable; either they’re waiting for you to scratch them behind the ears or they’re just old or born “out to lunch.” Or should I say “out to pasture?”

            From working on the farm, I have as many bruises on my legs as an amateur pole dancer. If I showered and wore makeup and a push–up bra, I could maybe convince a stranger that this is my work. I only mention the stripper deal again to come full circle. Also because this whole piece has been a little sick and twisted, and I thought I’d end in style. Now I'm going to go eat some bacon like a nice, Jewish girl. (Actually, the truth is, I'm going to Hot Yoga. It just seemed like a neat way to end the story).