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Chasing Dogs in Missouri
Volunteering in rural farms has its risks
‘He’s called P.I.T.A,’ said Drew.
‘Peter?’ I asked.
‘P.I.T.A, it stands for Pain In The Ass,’ he guffawed.
Drew was a dairy farmer in deepest darkest Missouri. Or that’s how it felt to me anyway even though his farm was only forty minutes outside Springfield. My best friend Sophie and I had spent two days squished into Greyhound seats and we were starting to feel a little disorientated.
We were ruthlessly disorganised for our two-month trip to the US. So much so that we may as well have been travelling on hope alone.
We had very little money, no experience in the country and were spending our time phoning up farmers and asking if we could volunteer for them.
When Drew picked us up from the Greyhound station he gave us a very skeptical look. Admittedly, neither of us looked like we’d be cut out for farming life.
Deep in Amish country, Drew’s farm was one of many iterations of his career. He’d lived everywhere and done everything. His stories were as tall as the windmill outside but he said he’d found a loophole to minimise the crushing financial burdens of the dairy industry.
