There is something serene about our stable on Saturday night. There is no need to rush with the last of the work. No one has school tomorrow; dinner is baking while we work. Becky makes the best macaroni and cheese I have ever tasted and I am looking forward to it as I sweep up to the cows. The cows are looking forward to their last meal of the evening too, a flake of hay apiece.

There are only four calves on buckets, Verona, the "name that calf contest" calf, gets a pail of water. Chateau, Spruce and Baja each get a pail of milk mixed with hot water. After Alan throws the bales down, he and I will parcel the hay out. Veronica, Verona’s mother is so greedy, she rips a big mouthful out of her piece, with a flip of her head, like a woman shaking out wet laundry.
When the cows are all fed Liz and I will pick up the calf buckets, wash them and call it a night.

Outside on the milkhouse step I look toward the house. It looks like the set of a spooky movie. A golden gibbous moon is just peeping over the ridgepole, between the inky Norway spruce and the side of the dusky tower. With lights glowing brightly from the windows against the velvet black it is dramatic and wonderful. It is welcoming too and I am more than ready to go inside.

I stop on the way and throw another six or seven blocks of cherry on the woodstove fire. The digital thermometer on the side reads 179 degrees; we will surely be warm enough tonight. I am really grateful for the cherry. It burns so much hotter and better than the wet, green oak I have been burning all week. Unless oak is bone dry it burns about like soggy sponge, hissing and spitting and refusing to get hot. The best it can do is smolder glumly and keep us kinda, sorta, not quite comfortably warm. Frankly, although it is better than no wood at all, I hate it.

The last job before I go in is to let Nick out of his kennel to race to the house like a cannonball unleashed. He is eager for his dinner too.