i hate babies.

I know I shouldn't. That it is against common decency. But I do. I hate them. I like mine. My baby. But I hate them. And you would, too. I'll explain.

Do any of you recall the opening sequence of the second "Jurassic Park"? Little girl, playing alone on beautiful beach. Suddenly emerges a little, harmless-looking dinosaur. She thinks it's cute; it - and all of its contemporaries - think she is lunch. And the horrific mauling begins.

Do you understand my metaphor?

Okay. How about this one: Piranhas. Got it? Good.

I mean, I change my clothes to feed the babies. I have to wear pants, a long-sleeved shirt, closed-toe shoes, and I should really consider gloves.

We feed them with a bucket (if you want design specificities, ask me later) in their pens. As I unlatch the gates one or another of them usually manages to get a good nip out of my knuckle. Upon opening the gate I crouch low, sweep my leg forward and out to knock the babies backwards and (hopefully) off their feet. Even so, no sooner am I in than I am surrounded and, holding a sloshing bucket over my head, am forced to wade through six baby goats suddenly transmuted into the hordes of hell. I plow through them. Little goat bodies fly to the left then right, only to throw themselves immediately back into the fray. It is not gentle. There is blood shed on both sides. I am not proud. Each time there is a rout. But they are never defeated.

Because I have to do it five times. Three times a day.



But I sure do love Eddie.