Friday The 13th

There wasn’t a Friday the 13th in November, or October, or September this year…but almost nightly, there’s one in the milk room. 

And, I’ve been trying to get a picture of it for weeks. 

Mostly, I get this:


The blank window in the milk room door.  Anticipating or just having missed Jason’s (or his victim’s) visit. 

But finally, I got this:


 Jason.  Or his victim.  

See that ghost-like image of a horror movie college-girl-running-from-certain-death posing as a goat?  Looks like a ghost.  Until mixed with the sound effects.

It is silent in the milk room at night.  Except for the rhythmic pssshh, pssshh, pssshh of the milk streaming into the milk pan.  I am peaceful.  I am appreciating the silence of the night. 



(Goat hooves slamming on the outside of the door.)

My heart stops.  I gasp, then stop breathing. 

Then I turn around to see the victim’s bloody hands slowly sliding down the window of the milk room door.  (Not really.)

Once I start breathing, I cuss. 

I go back to milking. 

I try to prepare myself for next time.

But, no use preparing.  It scares the **** out of me every time.

–  The Goat Cheese Lady


About The Goat Cheese Lady

I am Lindsey. At first I was a city girl. Then I was an urban farmgirl, attempting to balance city and farm life. Now, after moving to the country, I have embarked on life as a rural farmgirl, complete with my husband, the Animal Whisperer, man of exceptional knowledge and patience, two boys who are louder than my sister and I ever were, a herd of milking goats, and a flock of egg-laying chickens. Coyotes, mice, country dogs and prairie dogs are frequent visitors. Just 45 minutes north is Colorado Springs, the setting for our first six years in the goat world. Our family. Our city friends. Our introduction to cheesemaking. But we...and our growing farm and soon-to-be creamery...have set up shop down off of Highway 115 in Penrose, Colorado.
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