Foot and Mouth Diary | Culture | Seven Days | Vermont's Independent Voice

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Foot and Mouth Diary 

Published April 4, 2001 at 3:53 p.m.


    Dear Diary,

      News from the old country is not good!

      But Vermont is great! Farmer John needs more lambs — I can't swing a dead cat without hitting a ewe in heat!

      Exhausted — gotta run.

    Dear Diary,

      Some of the flock got into some fermented apples last night and made complete fools of themselves!

      We laughed and laughed — but to see the look of shock on Farmer John's face — you’d have thought the world was coming to an end!

      People that live in glass houses!

    Dear Diary,

      Farmer John came by the pasture today and inspected every single foot and mouth. Stupid man! He'll never impregnate an ewe that way! Besides, who knows where those hands have been!

      Uh-oh, he’s looking my way — gotta go!

    Dear Diary,

      Men in white suits came to the farm today. Farmer John is so mad!! Sometimes I think it’s a disease with him. Can't find a dead cat anywhere — hoping for something special for dinner. So sick of those meat pellets!

      I smell Moo Shoo — gotta run.

    Dear Diary,

      Bad news. Farmer John is furious again — Europe this and Europe that — it’s really getting old. Good news — two cows died today, so I gotta cut this short — first come, first serve.

      Hoping for sautéed brains!

    Dear Diary,

      More men in white coats today. The whole flock got a red dot on their foreheads — am a little upset because mine’s not centered — oh, well, life can be cruel.

      But really! Red dots — I feel so Exotic!

    Dear Diary,

      Overheard Farmer John say we’ll be taking a trip to Iowa!! — Staying in some fancy place called ‘Holiday Inn’ — I love holidays!

      Farmer John says, "couple days R&R, free room service, that's the way to do it."

      I love that crazy farmer!

    Dear Diary,

      Just a quick note. Checked out of Holiday Inn — what a Jacuzzi! Headed for large barn (new home?). Smell of burnt hair and spare ribs. Guess they’ll singe off our wool and treat us to lunch — mmm, Barbecue!

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Harry Bliss


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