Our farm was only four acres; but it was cross-fenced,
and we had this big, old barn and a fruit orchard,
which fed us and the livestock, too. Sounds idyllic;
but whether it was or wasn’t, we were just surviving.  
  
Every week, without fail, the kids and I went to the
livestock sale barn. We’d pack a lunch and be all
excited just thinking about what we might bring home.
Livestock that we’d would love on and treat with respect,
even though none were thought of as pets.  
 
The meat we received from these animals would be preserved,
either salted, canned, dried, or frozen so we’d have it
come winter. Perhaps some today don’t think about
the origin of food before it gets to the stores, but we knew,
since we raised most of it ourselves out of necessity.
 
Some animals were resold to create a positive cash flow,
and that was a win-win situation in my book. Our nanny goats
provided us with the cutest little baby goats, plus fresh milk.
And the rabbits gave us lots and lots of baby rabbits,
but since I could neither kill nor eat them, they were sold.
 
Poco, our woeful Basset Hound had the most beautiful howl,
and it kept away predators and salesmen. The barn cats
caught mice, keeping the feed barrels clean and mouse-free.
We got to eat lamb, veal, duck, beef, pork, and even barbequed
goat, which was delicious. We had a vegetable garden, too.
 
Since we didn’t own a truck or a trailer, we hauled our animals
in the trunk of the car, but put a tarp on the floor, in case
“somebody” got messy. Hauling animals this way was weird
but also a necessity, so we dubbed our little car, Noah’s Ark.
Though our Ark didn’t save any animals, it surely did save us.
 
We had a special routine for baby goats, lambs and calves, since they were
tall and had to travel while lying down. We would ease the trunk shut ‘til
it clicked, then bee-line for home, where it was all-hands-on-deck,
getting each animal safely housed, caged, or corralled, not leaving
any alone in the trunk, where they would, for sure, stand up and go pee. 
 
Most of our critters came home this way, including a box of newborn piglets
whose mama had died; scores of bummer calves, with long tongues
searching for a teat (though it seemed any elbow or sleeve would do);
orphaned lambs, with their baaing, and showing off pale pink tongues;
so many mouths to feed, but such fun to watch them romp and play.  

And there were the squealing weaner pigs, which made my children
want to cover their ears with both hands, and cute baby goats who
loved tasting shirttails and collars; and liked racing across the yard
with the children when they played tag, and loved most of all
to follow my daughter, probably because of her flying pigtails.  

We brought chickens and ducks home inside boxes, too, with covers
on them so none could fly out, though all our birds, including geese
and guineas, had been bought through the local call-in radio show.
And now, I am thrilled to say we finally bought a truck, but I don’t think
I’d ever like to see another livestock auction unless I keep both hands
in my pockets or else take my grandkids along.