When it rains, it pours...and I mean that in a good way

It was Sunday afternoon around 3 p.m. I was doing laundry. My exciting life. I heard a strange sound outside. Could it be? Was it possible? Was I hearing raindrops on the roof? The sound went from raindrops to hail in about five seconds. In the few minutes it took me to find the camera and aim it out the window, a stream was running across the corral and through the culvert that Lucy and Ethel built last fall. 
(Not donkey Lucy, the other Lucy – the one that got in all sorts of adventures when her best friend Ethel came to visit.)

Anyway, the water was flowing through the culvert just like I'd hoped prayed it would. This was the first time it had been tested. Let's do the math. Culvert built - October 22, 2010. First time water ran through it - July 24, 2011. That would be nine months without serious rain. There's a joke in there somewhere about giving birth and labor pains but I can't quite find it, so let's move on.

The problem with the picture above is that Hank, George, Alan and Lucy are nowhere in sight. Damnit! I want to be rejoicing and singing in the rain and puddle jumping, but I can't because I don't know the whereabouts of my herd. The last time I saw them was an hour ago as they headed down the path to the back 40.

My brain goes into mom mode: check on the chickens, grab raingear, then go find Lucy and the boys.

Lord have mercy. Have you two learned nothing since the last big storm when you almost drowned and one of you fainted?

Peach: Sure wish we could figure out how to get inside that coop where it's dry.

Clara: Hmm...you'd think there'd be a door around here somewhere.

Me: Your sisters found the door. Why didn't you follow them? I give up. You're on your own.

I headed out toward the barn. 

The rain had eased up a bit and I could stop to admire the culvert doing its job.  

Thank you for helping me build it, Ethel!

Me: Wynonna! It's still raining. What are you doing?

Wynonna: Inspecting the culvert. Want to be sure I can get to the dining room porch when it's time for supper.

Wynonna: Can I at least have a snack for making the trip all the way down here?

Me: No.

The front pasture was one big puddle, with streams replacing the dusty, beaten paths.

Surf's up!

Every puddle brought a smile to my face, knowing the grass might finally begin to grow. 

Now if I could only find my herd. I walked to the end of the back 40 and they were still nowhere in sight. 

I started wondering if they all could swim.

I turned around and headed back to the barn, hoping they would meet me there. 

At one point I looked behind me and much to my delight, there they were, emerging from the trees.

Whew. They all looked fine and no worse for wear. The only thing amiss was Alan's fly mask. 

This would mark the third time in as many days that he managed to lose one. Grrrrr. 

Somebody's not getting his allowance next week.

Me: Hank, you don't have to follow the path, you know.

Hank: I know. I just like the way the water feels when it squishes under my hooves.

Hank: Is that a trout?

By the time we all got back to the barn, an outdoor symphony had started. Coyotes, birds, and who knows what else were singing and carrying on, celebrating the return of rain to our patch of the desert. We all had to stop and drink it in.

George: Music to my ears.

Before I went in the house to pour a celebratory glass of wine dry off, I stopped at the garden to check on the chickens.

Me: You two look madder than a couple of wet hens.

A half inch of rain is nothing to be mad about. Now get over it.