Too Much Perfection?

I love living on a farm. We have hundreds upon hundreds of acres of land that, though it is not ours, it is family land and we have free run of it. I don't have to worry about the wutz growing bored. There is plenty to do and see right outside our back door. It is wonderful knowing that the nearest neighbor is more than a half a mile away. Even better is the ability to have the horses, dogs, and various critters right outside the front (and back) door.

I could go on and on about everything I love out here, but that's not the point of this blog tonight.

No, this one is about the one thing here that I absolutely hate. The backhoe of woe. I loathe this massive yellow monster. Every time there is a death, it is fired up and brought out from beneath the farm's shop, to do the duty of digging a grave, no matter the size.

In the decade I've lived here, I've seen it dig graves for horses, goats, cattle, and even dogs. Some of them were mine. Some very recently.

Tonight the yellow beast was brought out again. This time to bury a poor little calf that was born with no hair and was, unfortunately, unable to thrive. I'd been pulling hard for the little thing ever since I heard the news, but he didn't make it.

I couldn't help but curse at that backhoe as I saw it being driven across the field.

I do hate that damned thing.