Farm work is dirty, stinky, smelly work, and there’s really no way around that. On any given night after work, I may smell like wet Border Collie, bleach, sweat, goat cheese, raw milk, poo-poo, afterbirth, buck pheromones and hay. It didn’t take long for me to realize that bringing a spare change of clothes was not only a good idea, it was kind of a hygienic necessity. Most nights, I pack some comfy pajama pants, a cami and a sweatshirt and of course, my trusty “Farm Flip Flips” a slip-on alternative to proper shoes that eliminated the need for more socks (i.e the need to touch my body any more than necessary, as well as creating no additional laundry.)
When I am done working, I typically find a nook or crannie not otherwise occupied by animal, farm supply or person and change into my “jammies,” as my boss Evin calls them. Then I head over to the farm house to check-in, visit for a few minutes and say “good-night.” I have to be honest…most nights I strip down right in the barn. It’s the only lighted area that isn’t either wet from cleaning or housing a mammal and I change so fast, I don’t worry about anyone “catching” me. Besides, the farm is owned by women, run by (mostly) women…Hell, it’s a GOAT DAIRY…even the ANIMALS are girls. I’m quite sure there nothing on my person that would surprise or shock anyone. And the goats don’t say a word.
Well, I’m not sure if I was subconsciously scared of the unseen cougar who made it’s presence known by caterwalling loudly and running several bucks up and down the creek a few nights before, or if the first chill in the air of fall sent me to seek warmer quarters, but for some reason I left the publicity of the barn for the privacy of the feed room. I turned on the light and began my transformation from “Bo Peep” 
to “Drive Home Jammies.” Suddenly I was startled by a loud THUD THUD THUD against the wall opposite of the barn door. The only thing against that wall outside was the rabbit hutch and I was quite sure the rabbit was not “thumping” that loudly. But before I could contemplate the cougar (or realize that the Guardian Dogs were NOT barking…) a large black cat appeared atop a shelf in the upper right corner of the room, seemingly entering from under the roof, in between the wall and ceiling. He was big and beautiful with long black fur laying in pleats around his attentive eyes and focused ears. He was “talking” to me, sitting and meowing, looking like he was up for a night of feline farm adventures and bidding me adieu before heading out for the evening. I called, “Hey kitty, kitty!” but he didn’t budge, so I finished changing, closed the feed door tight, and headed for the farm house.
As I was leaving, I mentioned to Pat and Evin that one of their cats visited me while changing, specifically noting the “big, long-haired black cat.” The two women went pale and exchanged wordless glances. Before I could think, “Was it something I said?” Evin said, “We don’t HAVE any of the black cats on the farm tonight…”
“But…” I started…Was it a black cat?
“All of the black cats are back at Pat’s.” Stated Evin, flatly.
“Oh.”
The two women exchanged looks, again.
“I want to see the cat!” Exclaimed Pat, breaking the awkward silence, but further fueling my confused curiosity. Pat and I started off to the barn. But before we left the front porch the two women shared with me…
They had taken on two cats that had belonged to a friend of theirs’ from church who had entered a nursing home and was unable to care for them. They were two long-haired black cats, and much like their friend who entered the home they were old. In fact, one had recently passed away. On the farm. In Pat’s arms. His name was Jeremiah. He was 18 years old when he died. He was a big, long-haired black cat…who “talked” a lot.
My steps quickened towards the barn. Could it have been Bob, the short-haired grey cat, I thought? NO! This was, positively, a long-haired black cat. I was sure of it. I would bet on it. We threw the door to the feed room open, and there, in the darkness was…
NOTHING.
Poof! The “Spook” cat had vanished. Pat and Evin were tickled that I had seen a ghost on the farm (one of several, I am told, but I was the first to see this particular one…) and I was a bit horrified. I mean, I want to believe in ghosts, but I don’t actually want to SEE any. Too scary. But of course, I will keep my eyes peeled for Jeremiah…after all, I DO feel special that he made his presence known to me...so may he stay forever young enough to bound off rabbit hutches to startle and meow to half-naked farm employees! May he happily roam a well-appointed farm full of life, baby chickens, chipmunks and field mice. May he forever dine on the best goat cheese in the country and commune with some of the most cat-friendly ladies (myself included) in all the land. What a(n after) life! We should ALL be so lucky!!! Your friend forever, Bo Peep.
