I’m at Agribition, taking in the Angus auction sale. It has become part of my tradition.
I’m in the second row, sitting next to livestock reporter Barbara Duck-worth, and about two paces away from a young auctioneer.
The sale guide is in my lap, and I look down at the picture of the next pretty heifer on offer. I am suddenly itchy, and I realize a tiny piece of straw hanging in the heavy, humid air has landed on the side of my nose.
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I reach up. I scratch it.
The auctioneer’s head snaps around.
He realizes I’m not one of the bidders and looks back out to the real buyers. Whew. Close call. But then the bad girl inside me comes out, and I think, what if I called my husband?
“Hi honey,” I would say, as sweetly as possible. “How is your day?”
“Great,” he says, like he always does. “How’s it going at Agribition?”
“Pretty good,” I answer, a question lingering in my voice.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“Um,” I say, buying a little time. “Do you have $4,200 just lying around somewhere, doing nothing?”
“Why?” he asks, suspiciously.
“I’m bringing someone home with me. Her name is Jennifer. Or Erica. I’m not exactly sure.”
“Why does she need $4,200?”
“She doesn’t. Her owners do.”
“Owners?”
“She’s sort of a heifer.”
“Is that a nice thing to say about Jennifer? Or Erica?”
“Yes. She’s very pretty; black velvety hair, big eyes, long eyelashes.”
“Are you trying to tell me you bought a heifer at the Angus sale?”
“Yes. But I didn’t mean to! I was just scratching my nose and, well, there it was. Sold!”
He doesn’t know whether to laugh or yell.
“Well,” he says slowly, “at least I won’t have to mow the lawn this summer.”
Of course, none of this would have happened. These auctioneers are pros, and are certainly not going to land me with a heifer I can neither feed nor transport.
Besides, she’d be lonely out at Dad’s farm. Grain only.
But I really wanted to make that prank phone call. If there had been two minutes of time between Agribition meetings, events and receptions, I totally would have.
