A couple weeks ago, I offered to do my boyfriend's chores for him because he had to get up really early to unload a load of hay for one of his neighbors, that my father was hauling. Clear as mud?
Anyway, key point here is that I said I could handle the chores, and expected it to be easy, seeing as how I had helped numerous times by this point.
I watered everyone, then began gathering up buckets, keeping mind I had been to the chiropractor the previous afternoon, and was supposed to avoid any heavy lifting, jarring activity, etc... for at least one day. No problem, he had a wheelbarrow right next to his barn, and it would be no problem to wheel the buckets of grain around instead of pack them on this particular morning. Problem solved.
I went from no grain to a flood of grain in a snap, and was desperately trying to now get the door to close with much more vigorous wiggling and yanking, to no avail. The first bucket filled and began to run over. I stopped to switch buckets, then went back to trying to close it, knowing my hand was not large enough to stem the flow. With the second bucket near the overflowing stage, I finally got the door to shut.
I sat there in the dirt, stunned, realizing I had ground grain in places it would definitely stay all day. Then I glanced up. There stood his two horses, clearly amped for amateur day at the ranch, practically licking their lips in anticipation of me failing at getting that door shut.
I glared at them, crawled out from under the grain bind and loaded a bucket in the wheelbarrow. I located a shovel nearby, and returned to find one horse, his name is Garfield, in a carefully executed yoga position, on one and a half hooves, two-thirds of the way under the grain bin, licking the grain that had overflowed. After getting him out of there I scooped up the excess, thinking no one had to know about my rough start and obvious lack of experience with grain bins.
I wheeled my load over the below pens, where the gilts and boars are housed.
More than a little irked at this point, I gathered myself back up, and headed back to the fence. There, just inside the pen, was one of those compacted high spots I had gotten wet while watering earlier, and which was very slick.
I finished chores and my second cup of coffee just in time for my boyfriend to arrive back home. I had to tell him what had happened, partially because I could see the humor, and partially because I looked like I had lost a fight with a mud-covered corn cob. A couple days later I had to go back to the chiropractor to get everything straightened out a second time. I am in hopes my second attempt goes much better, funny as the first one is in retrospect.