This is the remainder of what was a whole truck load, albeit small truck, of Goat Poop. Composted, but still Goat Poop.

I am super happy about this Goat Poop. I met the goats it came from. I bartered for it. I shoveled it myself and was excited to do so. As The Husband was going about his garden work, I actually said “Don’t touch my Goat Poop.” I’ve spent my spare time this week with my boots and my gloves deep in Goat Poop. I’m so happy about that.

This compost is now dressing my spanking new garden beds, my existing garden beds, my sacks of potatoes, my lettuce boxes, my columnar apple tree. Everyone is getting the Goat Poop treatment. Even the ornamentals.

Despite all this there is leftover poo. Fret not. It won’t go to waste. My mind is a whir with possible Goat Poop applications.

This poop means I can finally start planting. My new beds can become old beds. My much anticipated lettuce table can go into use. Cloches and cold frames are required. I can live with that. I’m only a little behind schedule. I love it.

Last night I worked into the wee hours of the morning on things I do not care about. I resist this as much as humanly possible. I’ve gotten particularly adept at that resistance since The Return. It’s all about the boundaries. And I am a fortress. Regardless, the occasions are an unfortunate reality of my particular brand of Corporate Servitude.

That is an entirely different load of Goat Poop. One I am less happy about.