The couple who stare at goats

Last night James decided it would be a fun experience to take me to a cattle auction. Why not?

Now, He has done this before - we went to a livestock auction last year. A big one. One that had air conditioning, a full restaurant, and fully functional bathrooms. This wasn't too bad. But last night?

Last night we went to a down-home style backyard cattle auction. We were in good company. Out of the 30 or so people who sat around in the "reclaimed" wooden stadium seats, or up on the wooden rafter benches, I was easily the only person who had never had this experience before. I was so much cleaner than my counterparts that I practically glowed.

As soon as we sat down I cringed and curled away from my neighbor when he spit out so much dip spit that I thought at first he had actually thrown up on his own shoes. I watched as a steady drip leaked from the ceiling of the auction hall despite the rather dry conditions we have been experiencing. I dodged the awkward glances from farm-folks who had probably never seen someone with makeup before, other than when honey-boo-boo gets ready for her pageants, of course.

Then came the animals. Goats ran out into the auction ring, neighing and baying or whatever goats do - some of them screaming. It was a terrifying experience. They lifted the tails of the goats to determine whether it was a nanny or a billy, and I couldn't help but think that for at least one of the men here, this was the equivalent of speed dating. You know what I mean.

The animals shuffled in and out of the ring, sometimes ten at a time, and bids went left and right. We watched as someone paid over $30,000 for a small herd of cattle. Some of the cattle would ram into the gates, sending the men a few steps back, and some of them would simply stand there, wondering what was going on.

By the time James had finished the conversation with his new-found friend, my neighbor's lake of dipspit had turned into a creek was was rapidly approaching my boots. I was more than ready to head home and shower off the smell of cigarette smoke, manure, and my company.

So there you have it - I drag James around to musicals, wineries, and occasionally *gasp* the mall, so this is my debt. If he can sit through a few hours of people signing their feelings, I can sit through a few hours of country folk bidding on pissed off animals, in a dark and dingy, smoke filled auction hall, with mystery water falling from the ceiling, splatter from my seat-mate's bad habit, and creepy stares. Not that we're keeping score or anything...