Downer on the Farm

Last Friday I got roped into taking the boys to a nearby petting zoo -- billed as a "farm" -- with some friends. I had always driven past the place and knew we'd have to make a trip at least once.

From the moment we arrived, Boo Boo was in love. We simply followed him from animal to animal, as he ran around squealing with delight. I tried to not worry too much about his allergies to hay, grass and every living creature, and let him enjoy himself (with the epipen at the ready).

He remained blissfully unaware of the ticks that were probably lurking on the freely roaming deer, where the abundant flies had landed previously and the million-and-one ways he could be contracting e.coli, hand-foot-mouth disease and a lethal staph infection every second. He didn't even notice how pitiful the animals were in their too-small cages, how their scruffy, dirty coats were shaved, and how their eyes were dull with hopelessness.

I'm glad he enjoyed it, but not me. I wanted to release the animals from their pens, hose them down and transport them to a REAL farm. I've always considered myself more of a country person than a city person -- at least, a BIG city person. That is, until I spent an hour at this place. I'm not up to the flies, the allergens and the potential diseases.

What a sad realization this is for me. When I was a kid, I loved nothing more than visiting my great-aunt's sheep farm: exploring the barn, wrestling with the puppies, chasing the cats. Now that I am a mother of little, fragile children, even a petting zoo has become a sad, dangerous place.