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The cruel impartiality of Father Time

Father Time waits for no mule.

I told the guy, "cut me some slack. I've got this hay to eat, these goats to mind, this grass to trim, this cool refreshing water to drink . . . and, Father, I've got a blog to attend. I can't do all of this in 24 hours! I need a break." I asked him to bump me up to an allotment of 25 hours—maybe 26, max—on Friday, the day FarmWife was busy at the medical clinic all day. I asked for an extra 45 minutes on Saturday, the day FarmWife was out with Husband and Daughters trying to get some very small crutches for a very small filly (they are hard to find, it turns out, but if you are in Bellingham you should start at Hoagland's Pharmacy and save yourself the trouble of calling 30 other places). I asked for an extra hour or two yesterday, too, so that FarmWife could finish building a bunny paddock and still have time to blog with me before cooking some heart-shaped pizzas. He wouldn't budge.

24 hours is what you get, it turns out, whether you are an orphan or a hero or a dullard or a celebrity mule. Father Time is severe in his adherence to the rules, but he is also the world's greatest defender of equity. The only people who get a break from the 86,400 seconds-per-day rule are hypothetical speed-of-light travelers, and since I'm not one of those then I suppose I'm going to stop fussing about it and simply leave you with this: FarmWife and I apologize for the patchy content this week, and we promise to do better. You, dear readers, are never forgotten.

Ears,
FenBar

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