I guess you could say my parents were “teetotalers.” However, there was a bottle of whiskey in the cabinet for medicinal purposes, or so it was said. Whenever one of our little lambs got pneumonia, Dad would administer the miracle drug–a chug of Jack Daniels. Soon or later, it had to happen. My curiosity over the taste of the contents grew.
Dad was gone for the day and one of the lambs fell ill and wouldn’t stir. The poor creature had no more life than a warm towel. I knew the cause and the possible remedy. Off to the house I crept for the bottle. Somehow I circumvented my mother’s vigilant eye, grabbed the bottle, and headed for the barn. I suddenly transformed into a budding veterinarian. I raised the lifeless form’s head and pried its frothing jaw open. The mouth and tongue felt cold as if the blood was not flowing to that part of its body. The chest of lamb barely rose and fell with sporadic breathes. I had observed Dad administer the drug, but paid little attention to the dosage. My strategy was if a little is good, a lot has to be better. The little bugger took a gulp and swallowed. The alcohol must have set the little lamb on fire inside its stomach because when I laid it down on the straw it suddenly came to life. It struggled to its feet and stood erect with its eyes bulging. I waited. It snorted aggressively and my hope rose.
And then to my surprise, it jumped about three inches in the air and instantly fell dead on the ground. I couldn’t believe it. I paused, looked at the bottle, thought some more and decided–“maybe not this time.”