Denise Domning's Blog, page 2

Summer’s End

It’s still 64 degrees outside as I write this and even though I know the temperatures will be back near 100 degrees later in the week. Although it is still, albeit just barely, August it feels like Fall today. I know that later this week we’ll be back to almost 100 degrees, right now the temperature will inch up from a comfortable 80+ back toward 100 degrees later this week, but right now every breath is a promise that Fall is coming. And, according to the forecasters, Autumn this year will be warmer and dryer and will be followed by a colder and dryer winter. This, after one of the hottest, driest summers I’ve experienced here. If this is the future, I don’t want to go there. I’ve worked too hard turning this place into a green oasis to watch it retreat into the sun-baked barren red earth it was when I arrived.

That possibility made me maudlin–that would be maudlin in the sense of being sentimentally silly not drunkenly silly, which when you think about it is really the same thing– and set off a cascade of memories of all the animals I’ve had the fortune to have on the farm.

My beautiful Tom

Tom the turkey has now been here longer than any other creature. Ancient and sterile he may be, but he remains thrilled to interact with every child who walks on the property. His attack on that Golden Eagle is forever imprinted in my memory.

Brighty was my first Jersey cow. She was so angry about being forced into a horse trailer with a bunch of chickens during her move from Seligman to Cornville that when she stepped out, she carefully placed her hoof on my foot and pressed, then watched me suffer. A few weeks later, she apologized by resting her head on my shoulder and nuzzling my neck.

Dixie, another Jersey girl who died the same day as Brighty, had a thing for torturing Bear. She would wait until he wasn’t looking then sneak up behind him–yes, a thousand-pound cow can sneak–and headbutt him in the rear, sending him somersaulting. I swear she grinned each time she did it.

I miss those two girls terribly. I wasn’t the only one crying over them after they died. Elsie, the youngest of that herd, stood on their graves for three days and called out her grief.

There was the day that I watched Miss Piggy skipping across the field out of pure joy. And the day when my sister admitted she was a little frightened about going down into the field my piglets. I assured her they were really sweet and very polite and she could feed them apricots. A little while later I stepped out onto the porch and there was my sister with the eight piglets sitting in a patient semi-circle in front of her as she distributed fruit. “And here’s one for you,” she said to each of them as that piglet gently took an apricot from her hand.

Peanut and Moosie

I’ll never forget how worried Bear was the night Moosie crawled into a blackberry thicket to kill a raccoon, and how determined he was to make sure I came to help. Moosie will be forever missed. It’s hard to imagine that a dog as lethal as he could also be so incredibly gentle and protective with newborn lambs. Or how determined he was to teach every calf born on the property to dig for gophers. And he did! Oh, how the heifer Hannah leapt and bucked the moment she finally pushed dirt back behind her with her hooves.

What a day it was when Peanut, the orphan lamb Moosie adopted after Tiny refused him, met his real siblings. The instant that tiny spit of a creature realized his much larger brother and sister were just like him, he started to shake his head from side to side then backed up. That’s lamb-speak for “Let’s play headbutts.” The two larger lambs watched in surprise as their itty bitty brother launched himself full-tilt at them. Peanut miscalculated a little and ran right under his brother’s belly.

Maybe because Peanut was a little unclear on exactly what he was–sheep, dog, cat, he also became very friendly with the piglets. I walked into the orchard one day to find Peanut, his legs folded under him and his eyes closed, as the piglet on either side of him gently ran his ears through their mouth.

This morning I went to rescue two of the blue slate turkeys, who are promising to top thirty pounds before Thanksgiving, that had flown over the perimeter fence. Turkeys are funny creatures. They’ll fly over a fence, but when they realize they’re separated from their flock, they panic and forget they can fly. They can pace for hours before they remember they have wings. When I reached the fence I found the rest of the tiny flock standing with the sheep in the pathway between the pastures and perimeter. I’d put the sheep down by the creek this morning, but Tiny had brought them back up. There are no apple trees down there and this time of year Tiny wants her apples.

As I herded the two escapee birds toward the open gate, the sheep and the other turkeys followed along the path. By the time I reached the open gate, one of the turkeys was perched on the back of Rosie’s older girl. Both looked pretty happy about the arrangement. I’m guessing this is a common occurrence and suspect the birds have been picking burrs and bits of tasty things out of the lambs’ wool.

That’s how it is here, each day filled with at least one moment of amazement or joy or laughter. Here’s another moment from today.

No matter what the future brings, no matter how sad the past has been, I wouldn’t trade these last ten years for anything.

Hypochondriac

Did you know a dog can be a hypochondriac? I didn’t. At least, I didn’t until last week. Okay, in all fairness to Rupert, he is a vaccine-injured dog. (He actually has an exemption from having vaccines until he’s 18 months old.) It’s entirely possible that the vaccine that temporarily paralyzed him also left his nerves more sensitive to pain.

It happened Friday evening after the dogs had eaten their dinner, which was raw chicken as it so often is. After eating, Rupert climbed into his favorite chair (which is also my new guy’s favorite chair), which is next to my desk, and went to sleep. An hour or so later he whined and looked up at me without moving his chin off the chair arm. I thought he was begging for a pat, so I gave him some love. A little while later, he whined more persistently and got more love for his effort. That’s when my new guy came in and commanded Rupert to get out of the chair. When there was no response from Rupert, my guy took him by the collar and began to slide him off the seat.

Rupert didn’t yelp, he screamed as he slid bonelessly onto the floor, then laid on the floor without moving. He was shivering.

Both of us dropped down next to him to see if we could figure out was wrong. After a thorough investigation, I came up with two possibilities. The first was that he hadn’t properly chewed up his chicken and a bone was caught somewhere in his digestive system. Although possible, I couldn’t believe it. I’ve fed my dogs raw meat and bones for ten years now and never once had anything near to that happen. The other possibility was that Rupie had pulled a “Moosie,” and tried to climb a tree. And, just like Moosie, he’d injured his right shoulder.

Rupert and Radha have only recently discovered squirrels. More importantly, they’ve discovered that squirrels climb trees to escape them. Over the last two weeks I’ve seen both them standing on their hind legs, their front paws braced as high on a tree trunk as possible, as they stare up into the branches watching the escaping critter.

With no emergency vet nearby, I did what I could for the little guy. I found a mild anti-inflammatory in my vet supplies and some dog CBD, then settled Rupie on a blanket for the night. The CBD calmed him and before long, the shivering stopped. At midnight I went to check on him. He was sound asleep. I stroked him and his eyes opened. A moment later he again began to shiver. I gave him another dose of CBD and went back to bed. A few hours later when I checked on him again, I found him curled in a tight ball. I  breathed in relief. If he could do that, it wasn’t his gut.

Sure enough, this time when I stroked him, he looked at me pleadingly and held up his right front leg. My relief grew. He was going to be fine and more importantly, so I was.

As annoyingly yappy and terrier-like as Rupie is, he’s perfect for Radha and they are forever bonded. If Radha lost her little chew toy, I doubt my overly energetic and dominant Anatolian Shepherd would easily accept another dog on the property. Even though Rupert is so much smaller, he’s tough as nails. They match each other in jaw strength and Rupert is perfectly willing to let Radha hit him like a Steeler linebacker and send him rolling.

The next morning, Rupert limped away from his blanket into the living room and jumped–mind you, jumped– into his favorite chair. When I went to see how he was doing, he gave me those eyes and shivered as he held up his right front paw. Let me say I wasn’t entirely buying the act at that point.

Radha, who had dearly missed her buddy the previous night, came rushing over to him, ready initiate their usual bout of early morning chasing. Rupert growled at her and showed her that same paw. Confused, she retreated up into the chair next to him, rested her head on its overstuffed arm, then stared longingly at him. He curled up and ignored her.

After a moment, Radha went to Bear. Bear, having lived so long with the injured Moosie, had figured out that Rupie was hurt. So when Radha suggested that the two of them play, he agreed. Their bout lasted for about a minute and a half before the old man had had enough and laid down. Back she went to her best bud. She put her head on the seat of his chair. He refused to look at her.

A few minutes later I had to make a trip down to the garden to collect some breakfast greens. Radha and Bear joined me. It wasn’t until I neared the garden gate that I realized Rupert had also joined us. There was no limp or sign of pain as he walked. Radha noticed him a moment later and made that fearsome noise of hers that suggests chasing and running would be more fun than eating chicken poop.  Apparently, it was a very convincing invitation because Rupert took off like a shot. Radha caught him an instant later and sent him rollling. He came up, his mouth wide, showing off his awesome set of very white teeth. And that was the end of his injury. They were off, joyfully chasing, biting, rolling, and growling.

What a con dog! Only then did it occur to me that while he was paralyzed as a puppy he’d probably gotten more attention by shivering and raising that helpless paw than waiting for someone to pet him. Good to know for the future, and very good that it’s true: all’s well that ends well.

 

I’m So Sorry!

To the woman who appeared next to me at my chicken tractor Thursday morning, I am so profoundly sorry. I cannot believe I did what I did. I know it’s too late, but I feel like I need to explain what happened and why I acted the way I did.

First, it was 5:30 AM, which is my usual time for morning chores. But that morning I’d overslept. That isn’t why I was still dressed in my pajamas; I always wear pajamas when doing my chores. Being dressed in sleepwear helps me maintain the delusion that I’m really not up yet. No, oversleeping means I hadn’t yet had my first cup of tea for the day. That’s never a good thing.

Even worse, Thursday morning was warmer than Wednesday morning had been. It was cool enough Wednesday morning that I’d put on my robe for Wednesday morning chores. I waffled over wearing it on Thursday, ultimately deciding to leave it in the house. I like to think that had I been wearing it, what occurred would have taken a very different course.

Those notes aside, I’m assuming you were drawn to me because you heard me talking. You couldn’t have known that I was talking to my ducks and meat chickens. It’s the same conversation every day, me berating the ducks for having not yet given me the four eggs I demand from them before they’re allowed out of their coop for the day. While I was doing that, I was bent over, filling the water trough for the meat birds in their mobile coop. Between that conversation and me being bent over I didn’t notice you as you approached. I did, however, catch the sound of your voice as you spoke to me, however I didn’t hear what you said because I, now being elderly, am beginning to go deaf.

My partial deafness is why when I straightened I turned toward the house and not you. I mean, in my mind there was nowhere else that a human voice could have been coming from at that hour of the morning. Needless to say, there was no one calling to me from the house, male or female. I did notice that the dogs had left the porch and were racing in my direction.

That’s when you spoke again. I have no recall of what you said to me because your words coming from directly behind me startled me so badly that I jumped and cried out before I turned to face you. And then I saw you. All of you. The moment I realized you were wearing nothing but tattoos, every rational atom of my brain evaporated.

This is something I didn’t think possible. I’m a post-panicker, the sort of person who falls apart after the crisis is over. As an example, not long ago a workman at the house had an accident with his knife and cut the artery near his wrist. Despite that blood was spurting from the wound, I calmly snapped one of those thick rubber bands that they use for broccoli around his arm and drove him to the fire station without breaking a sweat.

But you! Honestly, you might has well have been an alien stepping out of the door of your UFO.

Not that I had any time to think about your state of dress. By then the dogs had reached you. As I’m sure you will never forget, they were thrilled to discover that they had access to portions of the human anatomy they generally never get to push their noses into. I recall those few moments as a flurry of motion and snarled commands on my part as I struggled to drive them away from you. When they finally relented and backed off, I stood facing you, only to discover that I was completely discombobulated.

My mouth opened but nothing came out. At last, I stuttered, “Are you trying to get to the road?”

Seriously?! As if naked women frequently cross my property on their way to the road!

I believe I asked you this because it’s the question I ask most of strangers who wander up from the creek and onto the farm. This is because 1) our fence has a number of gates in it and looks accessible and 2) because of that, a lot of frustrated kayakers pass through our gates to get up to the road, where someone picks them up, saving them from dragging their kayaks any farther along the creek bed.

I don’t recall your answer because, frankly, my head was still spinning, so I spewed, “Why are you here?”

“I, um,” you said, slightly uncrossing your arms so you could aim a finger across the creek, “I um, um, am staying there.”

As my gaze followed your aimed finger, my spinning thoughts begin to steady, just a little. Something coherent leapt to the fore. I knew what you were talking about!

“Oh, you’re staying with Puma,” I more asked than said. I had to use the first name of the owner of the spa/healing retreat that is sort of directly across the creek from the farm because for the life of me in that moment I couldn’t remember the name of their retreat.

“Yes,” you nodded. “That’s where I’m staying.”

“And you want to get back there?” I asked.

Well, duh. But I was beginning to feel the ground beneath my feet again.

“Yes, I need to get back,” you replied.

“That’s easy,” I told you and turned toward the exterior fence to point at the creek. “There’s an easy place to cross the creek right there. Once you’re across, keeping walking straight and you walk right into it.”

“Okay,” you replied, then followed me to the small gate that leads down to the creekside pasture.

“But wait!” I said as I opened the gate. “You don’t have any shoes on.” Or anything else, but our conversation had gone beyond that fact at this point. “There are a lot of burrs down there.”

“Oh, I’m okay with that,” you told me as you went through the gate and started down toward the creek.

Still flabbergasted, I closed the gate and returned to my morning chores. It wasn’t until two hours later that my thoughts finally settled enough that I realized what I’d done. I want you to know that I was truly aghast with myself. What was wrong with me? Why hadn’t I taken you up to the house, put my robe on you, given you a cup of tea, then driven you back to the spa? What kind of a person sends a naked woman on a hike over rough, burr-sprinkled terrain?

If you happen to read this, please know that I’m mortified by my behavior. I’m so very, very sorry. Really, I’m usually better than that.

 

Draggin’ Hoses

What happened to our Monsoon season? One storm that drops only enough water to dirty the truck is not going to cut it! I need my rain because, other than my ancient flood irrigation system that I keep patching up, I don’t have any way to satisfactorily water anything anywhere on the farm. What a strange thing, to have on a property that is crossed by three blue lines: Page Spring, the Mason Ditch, and Oak Creek, and no way to get any of that water to where I need it without dragging hoses.

I’m not the only one who failed to install a working irrigation system here. When I arrived there were six defunct systems that sought to (and failed) to put water where the flooding didn’t reach. Some of them used pop ups sprayers, some standing sprayers, some large turning spray heads. Most of the pipes and heads had baked in the summer sun along with the plants, and cracked and broken. I discovered two more systems, with two different sets of supply pipes, in the orchard. They died a long time ago and the ground was allowed to uppen over them. (“Uppen” is Joel Salatin’s term for how soil grows–it doesn’t deepen, it uppens.) Every so often I discover another set of pipes and spray nozzles as I’m digging.

Even if they hadn’t been already defunct, I wouldn’t have kept those systems. That’s because all of them used water from the wrong end of my pump house, after it had been filtered and treated, turning magical alive spring water into chlorinated dead water. That chlorine system is gone now, replaced by UV, which is no better. The water is “safe” to drink but just about as dead as chlorine makes it. Ugh. I have amazing spring water here. That’s what I want to use on my plants.

Which is how I ended up with miles and miles of hoses. I bought a few 1/8 horsepower sump pumps and dropped them into my two spring boxes, attached the hoses and started dragging. I pull them down to the big garden. I pull them up to the front of the house. I use them to water the roses above the propane tank and the little garden I built for my birthday some years ago. I drag them back beyond the pump house to water my cherry and plum trees, and those #*@% fig trees that are once again refusing to set fruit. I really am going to cut them back this year. And in a never-ending cycle, I pull them across the elderberry and apple orchards on the middle hillside.

You can see the water droplets the wobblers are throwing out

You might be wondering why I stick with hoses rather than installing my own in-ground system. That’s because my magical, live spring water comes with a few add-ons, like dirt, the occasional mushy fruit, a few crayfish, a dead owl (I was so sad when I found it), and such like. I make a number of attempts. I tried Netafim which I had used in a prior life and loved. Clogged up. A length of regular blue stripe drip system followed. Clogged up. Soaker hose. No-go. That’s when I came across the Wobblers. These are sprinkler heads with a single large opening. The pressure of the water moving through that opening causes them to wobble on top of their support, sending huge water droplets out in a wide circle. Well, until some unfortunate bug gets sucked in through the spring pump, down the hose, and into the channel of the wobbling head to the point where the water exits. That’s where they all get stuck, clogging up the sprinkler head. It’s a very messy end for them and they’re really hard to remove. While wobblers are a good tool for my watering tool box, they work best in wide open spaces. They don’t do spot watering and I need water to hit the roots of my trees, bushes, and plants.

For the record, I had to stop typing this post four times to move hoses. That’s it. Somewhere, someone has to have a solution for this problem of mine. I need something more permanent, something that stays put, that I can turn on with a flick of a switch or even– gasp!– use a timer for automation! Until then…well, I’ll be draggin’ hoses.

 

Dog Days

Here we are again, starting into the dog days of August, and boy, oh boy has it been hot here. We had two days–maybe three; I can’t remember because the heat addles my brain–over 105 degrees. That’s really unusual for us, and it’s made worse by the very thing that usually makes this place livable: water. I don’t care what anyone says. 109 degrees and humid is awful, even if the humidity is only 60 percent. Everyone, from the chickens to the poor, plush-furred rabbits to the woolly llamas, are hot. (The sheep don’t seem to be bothered too much, though.) Kali allows me to hose him down. Scout isn’t having anything to do with that.

Speaking of Scout, he’s doing much better in his new pasture. I watch him make his way around the space, tottering a little over unexpected berms and logs, but not falling. He’s begun munching on whatever leaves are at his nose level, with walnut leaves being his particular favorite. He must like their lemony smell as much as I do. And walnut is a great dewormer, in case he has such a gut problem.

a pimento pepper and chard

But back to the heat. The only things that seems to be enjoying this hot, humid weather are the plants in my gardens. My pepper plants are five feet tall, I have zucchini coming on strong (the chickens love it, so I really can never have enough). As for melons, I’ve got ’em although I’m going to have to read my earlier posts so I know which ones are which. The San Marzanos–the seedlings tomatoes I planted last–have beat out all my other seedling tomatoes, and are putting on berries as fast as their flowers open. That said, I do have baby Cherokee purples on a few of my home-grown plants. There are also some monster tomatoes ripening on the Cherokees transplants I purchased.

There’s spaghetti squash, butternut squash, pumpkins, cucumbers galore, and I’ve already made a couple of quarts of a very tasty refrigerator pickle. Then I found a half dozen of over-ripe cucumbers that I’d somehow missed in the jungle of their vines. Research suggest these make great relish or a cubed pickle that taste much like pickled watermelon rind, which just happens to be my–and my grandmother’s– favorite treat. It’s her recipe I use to make them. Funny, I don’t really like watermelon that much. The only thing standing in my way is that I can’t find any Mason jars at the moment. It seems everyone’s taken up canning this year. I guess I’m going to have to open the boxes I packed when I was planning to move two years ago. I think I’ve got canned goods from 2012 that I can dump and reclaim those jars.

Every three days or so I pick a pound and a half of Blue Lake green beans while my Blue Lake pole beans, which are now a land race plant for me, having grown on the property for seven years, are so heavy with pods that they’re bringing down their supports. That would be a wall of sunflowers I grew just for them. I definitely didn’t plant enough Black-eyed peas, but I now have enough seeds to do it right next year. That said, these successes come with a real disappointment. Neither my Scarlet Runner beans nor my Aztec Long beans are setting on. I looked up pole beans to see if I could figure out what went wrong and the advice was pretty useless. Could be too much water or not enough water, too much heat, not enough heat. Or not enough pollinators. That’s definitely not the problem. All my plants are crawling with everything that loves nectar, including honeybees. It seems my previous wild hive didn’t move far when they left the massive, ancient cottonwood at the back of the property.

I’ve even got ginger starting! The root sprouted in the house and, despite my failure at growing it couple of years ago, I thought I’d give it another try. The problem wasn’t sprouting them or getting them to leaf out. The problem arose when I tried to overwinter them. You see, I kill houseplants. I’m don’t know how that possible, but it’s true. I just don’t get houseplants. Maybe it’s the pots. I’m used to rough and tough plants, ones that scrabble to draw what they need from my barely adequate soil. Maybe indoor plants are just too finicky. Whatever that prejudice is, I’m going to have to put it aside and make this happens. I want to grow my own ginger!

Until then, stay cool and may dirt lodge permanently under your fingernails (as it has mine).

 

Llamas

A couple of weeks ago I was having lunch with my friend Su. Su and I have known each other about nine years now, having met while exhibiting at a local craft fair. She was selling Norwex. I was subtly introducing raw milk to my community by selling lemon curd and my jalapeno jelly. The organizer of the fair mistook me for Su because as I introduced myself to her, I mentioned something about being allergic to perfumes. Apparently, Su had reserved a spot far from another merchant who was selling scented soaps. Su arrived as I was being led to my “reserved” spot, which was actually hers. When I realized we had similar allergies, I decided we ought to at least get to know each other.  As it turned out, we had a lot more than allergies in common–things like hand milking, cheese making, a love for rural life, and a similar upbringing. So over the past years, we’ve bounced in and out of each other’s lives just when we most needed the other. A few weeks ago it was my turn to be the one doing the helping. Years ago, Su and her husband purchased a flock of Alpacas, which came with a pair of livestock guardian llamas. Or rather, one guardian and the guardian’s friend, a blind llama. The other day at lunch Su mentioned that she wanted to re-home the llamas and had offered them free on Craig’s List.

I instantly sat straight up in my chair. “Really? You’d give them away for free?”

Remember, I know there’s a hunting lion in our neighborhood. And Su keeps her flock and llamas about a mile and a half from my home. And I’ve got these deficit dogs–one elderly, one a useless pet, and one so hard-headed I can’t be sure what she’s going to do from minute to minute. The idea of having a REAL guardian that might actually protect my sheep from a lion was, well, incredibly alluring despite that these llamas are working their way toward elderly.

A moment later, we’d agreed that her old boys would come live with me. It took a bit to get them here. There was a thick layer of gravel on a driveway to be negotiated, as well as getting Scout, the blind boy, into the trailer, and convincing Kali (yes, the working llama has the same name as my former dog; that, in itself, was pretty weird) to follow Scout into the trailer.

The stars aligned a little more than a week ago. Scout allowed us to halter him, and we got him into the horse trailer with next to no trouble. Kali followed without incident, and Su’s friend’s truck made it up the driveway without floundering in the thick gravel. Once here on the farm, we walked the two camelids across the orchard and into the front pasture, then into the alleyways I’d set aside for them. I wanted to give them a week in a confined space, apart from the sheep and the dogs, to get accustomed to their new home.

It was a good idea, but I didn’t quite get how completely disabled Scout is. The poor thing. He kept running into the fencing. Although I put up a shelter for them, where I kept their food and water, it seemed to me that Scout wasn’t spending enough time in that area. I hated seeing him sitting in the hot sun at midday. Unlike Kali, each time I led Scout back to the shelter, he refused to stay there for long and would go back to again bouncing off the fences.

In the meantime, the dogs were doing their best to figure out who these strange creatures were. Su had warned me that neither llama liked dogs and that both were likely to kick if approached. Bear was the first to introduce himself. Scout sniffed at him, then went back to rebounding along the alleyway. Kali and my big boy communed, nose-to-nose, for a long moment, then Bear laid down next to Kali and Kali ignored him.

So much for disliking that dog.

Rupert introduced himself next and very quickly decided that he had no business anywhere near those two creatures. The llamas have been here for a couple of weeks and he continues to maintain a very wide distance.

Then there’s Radha. First, she tried  chasing the llamas. Neither one ran. Then she tried to encourage them to play with her. She succeeded in getting Scout to kick at her while Kali figured out that she was all bluff and ignored her.

Meanwhile, Scout continued to bounce off the fences. A couple of days ago I couldn’t take it any more. Ready or not, he needed a larger space, one where he would always be able to find to water and there was enough grass for him to try grazing. He needed to be in the back pasture. All I had to do was get him there without upsetting Kali.

At first, it looked as if this task was going to be as easy as getting them here. With a lead fastened to Scout’s halter, Christina and I dragged, pulled, coaxed and encouraged him across the middle pasture. By the time we reached the grassy swath in front of the turkey barn we were a procession of humans, llamas, chickens, turkeys and dogs. When I finally had Scout in the back pasture, I led him toward the ditch so he could smell the water. That’s when he caught his back foot on something and fell. He landed with one back leg splayed to the side while the other was beneath him.

I had no idea that llamas cried like babies when they’re hurt. It was horrible to hear, and frightening to watch. What if he’d broken a leg? How was I ever going to explain this to Su?

Christina instinctively raced forward, wanting to help. At the same time, I shouted at her to get away. That’s because I could see what she hadn’t, that Kali is racing full tilt at us. She barely managed to flee before Kali reached Scout, kicking and spitting.  He then stood over Scout, his front feet straddling his friend. My jaw dropped. So this is what a livestock guardian looks like. In that instant I had no doubt that Kali would do the same for the sheep or any other critter that was threatened in his vicinity.

Bristling, Kali looked from me to Christina to the three, or rather two watching dogs. By then, Bear had gone to lay down. He was paying no attention to the dramatics going on a few yards behind him.

Rupert cowered. Not Radha. She came slowly toward Scout, paying no attention to Kali’s warbled threats, and put her nose against his. At this point I was sure that my replacement livestock guardian dog was about to be attacked and possibly killed. The only thing Radha had going for her is that she’s wicked fast. More importantly, I doubted that Kali would leave Scout to catch her.

But even as Radha, still sniffing at Scout, came closer to where Kali stood, Kali didn’t move. When Radha was finished sniffing, she strolled past Kali, then went to lay down in front of Scout. Every line of her body said she understood he was hurt and meant to protect him.

Apparently Kali reads body language as well as I do. A moment later he backed off and Scout came trembling to his feet. That’s when I made my decision. I won’t be leading Scout anywhere again. He’s where I want him and he’ll have to find his own way from now on.

Radha stayed close to Scout until I finally called her away. That evening she went down to the pasture and once again approached Scout. He again allowed her sniff at him and, as she’d done earlier in the day, she laid down near him.

And thus is the livestock guardian dog gene triggered. Scout is hers. Even Kali accepts that.

As for the sheep that I intended Kali to guard? Christina’s mother did some research and reports that llamas seem to think of sheep as their intellectually challenged cousins. So far, that seems to be Kali’s attitude toward them. What does my little flock think of the newcomers? That it’s swell of these guys to share their leftover hay.

I’m happy to report that today I not only saw Scout make his way across the pasture to water, which relieved me to no end, but I watched him graze. As for Kali, this evening he once again turned to face the road in the direction of his former home and hummed. I can see him longing to return to the alpacas he once guarded. I wish I could tell him that it’s okay, that his former flock is fine, and, more importantly, how much I appreciate what he’s already done for me and the farm.

Bear’s Big Adventure

So Bear gave me a scare last week. It was my fault because somehow I managed to leave two creekside gates open overnight. I swear the heat pickles my brain, but I’m unwilling to give up garden time just because it’s 104 degrees.

At any rate, the gates were open overnight and, to the best of my knowledge which is based on listening to Bear and Rupert barking at night, no one went on walkabout in the dark. In fact, all three dogs were on the porch in their favorite chairs when I got up at 4:00 AM. I went out to greet them as I usually do, then made tea and started my morning.

They were still on the porch when I left the house to do chores. It wasn’t until I was making my way back to the turkey barn that I noticed neither Radha nor Bear were following me the way they usually do. Rupert was, of course, right beside me because that’s where Rupert is when we’re doing chores. I assume this is because he knows he gets fed after all the other critters and he’s making sure I don’t forget that.

Since the absence of the two big dogs doesn’t really mean anything in general, I finished up my chores then went up to the house. I stopped on the porch, surprised that they weren’t waiting on the porch. Let me say, no one ever misses breakfast here. I went inside and brought out two metal dog food bowls and banged them together a couple of times. “Dogs!” I called. “Breakfast!” Then I went back inside to fill those bowls.

Radha appeared a moment later. She offered her usual comment regarding breakfast, which is “Roo-roo-roo-rah.” She’s quite the talker. When all three bowls were full, I returned to the porch. No sign of Bear, who moves at about the same pace as a glacier. I called for him a few times. Concern deepened when there was no response. I fed the other two and went down to walk the property.

That’s when I discovered I’d left the gates open. That also told me where both Radha and Bear had gone while Rupert was helping me do chores. But if Radha came back to eat, where was Bear?

Concern became worry. The old boy is closing in on the end of his life. What if he’d seen the open gate as a chance to go die in peace?

I closed the gates, certain that Bear would be home soon. He never misses a meal, and if he didn’t want to wait outside the gates, he knows his way around our very large neighborhood pretty well. In their misspent youth, he and Moosie exploited every opportunity to escape the farm and everyone in the neighborhood got to know them, whether they liked it or not. (Moosie had a habit of bringing dead skunks as a welcome gift to newcomers.) More importantly, all my dogs are micro-chipped and I knew I’d put a tag on Bear’s collar inscribed with my phone number. I also knew that Bear would walk up to anyone he met and beg for pats. It wouldn’t be long before I got the call to come pick up my dog.

Only I didn’t get that call. By noon, I was really beginning to worry. Putting his leash around my neck, I took off across the creek to see if I could find him. As I walked the island I ran into a couple of laborers. They hadn’t seen a big dog, but promised to return him if they found him. On the other side of the island I met new neighbors who have a spectacular garden. We chatted about that, and they also promised to let me know if they found him. At Grace Groves, the retreat center that is my most direct across the water neighbor, they remembered Bear well. I got another promise of a call.

By then, I was sure Bear had found that private spot and left me. Dispirited, I took the long way home, calling for him. I didn’t find him, but I did scare up a barn owl, which thrilled me, and I had to swim the creek in the wildest area. That wasn’t exactly a hardship on a hot day.  Once I was home, I waited. If he’d been found, someone would call.

No one did and Bear didn’t show up for dinner. I just knew he was gone for sure.

The next morning while picking green beans (two and a half pounds worth), I realized I’d forgotten that we have an on-line community bulletin board. I resolved to put his picture on it as soon as I was done, just in case. At almost that same instant, my partner called down to me from the porch. “They found Bear! He’s at the Humane Society!”

Off he went to claim our lost dog while I wondered why no one had called me. As it turned out, Bear’s tag had disappeared from his collar and the rescue organization that installed Bear’s chip had not done as they said, and updated his information with my name and number. That’s changing this week.

As for Bear, he’s very glad to be home. I asked him what he thought he was doing at his age, wandering the neighborhood like that. Here’s what he told me.

“The gates were closed so I had to walk the long way around the property. When I met them, they asked me if I was lost. I told them no, that I was just late for breakfast and could they give me a ride home? They let me get in their car, but they didn’t take me home. Instead, they took me to this strange hotel where the staff was amazing, so friendly and loving. But the food! No meat at all! I didn’t eat anything the whole time I was there. Can I please have a second breakfast?”

Then he went out to greet the new llamas, but that’s a story for next week.

It’s Happened

I know this will be hard to believe, but the impossible has happened. I have run out of baling twine to use for my building projects.

Oh, the horror! What can I say? Every animal I own is grazing on pasture at the moment, so I’m not buying any hay. That may change in the near future as I’m expecting two new animals who have only been fed alfalfa and aren’t used to grazing. Of course, I’m hoping to wean them off the bales and onto grass, but only once my baling twine supply has been replenished.

I wouldn’t have noticed this crucial dearth if not for my truant teen-aged chickens. By Wednesday of last week I knew I couldn’t keep them in the orchard any longer. Every chance they got they were escaping from their tractor to return to the Garden of Eatin’. That meant moving them down to the turkey barn, and moving them down there meant I needed to build them an isolation coop.

I know I’ve said this before, but chickens are little Tyrannosaurs. They have no compunction regarding murder. If they don’t like another chicken, they attack first and worry about whatever consequences might follow later. Once, long ago before I was wise to the way of Gallus gallus domesticus, I brought home twenty-odd chickens of all different breeds. Although there were supposed to be two of each breed, I ended up with only one Turken. The Turken is an especially ugly breed, meant to look like a turkey while still being a chicken. She had a naked neck and what seemed to be a bowl cut to the feathers on her head. Needless to say none of the other chickens tolerated her because of her strange looks. One day, they ganged up on her and tore out all her feathers, resulting in me having to end her life. Her death took with it any remaining delusions I may have had about gentle chickens.

The point of all that is that I know how important it is to separate chickens until they’re used to each other, which generally takes a week. Of course, this time I’m combining Barred Rocks with more Barred Rocks, and with Partridge Rocks that are accustomed to Barred Rocks. It should be easier. Or maybe not.

Either way, doing that in the turkey barn required erecting a wall of some sort, and here I was, without so much as a strand of baling twine to my name.

Down at the barn, I found a chain link panel that had once been a part of a dog kennel. It even had a doorway…but where was the door? I found it tied to a post in the coop, holding up one end of a length of well piping. Scratching my head in confusion, I walked to the opposite end of the well pipe, which was outside the coop wall. It was tied to the metal door frame of my birthing stall. That meant it was doing exactly nothing except taking up space. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember why that pipe was there or what had convinced me to use a chain link door to support it. No matter. It had to come down. However, when I started to remove it, Christina, who had volunteered to help erect this simple wall, argued against it. It was 108 degrees and humid, and this wall was supposed to be a “ten minute job.”

For the record, there’s no such thing as a ten minute job.

Addled by the heat, I conceded. So we tied the interior end of the pipe–that will come down one day soon–to a convenient post and confiscated the door. The ten-foot-long panel came in through the barn doors, through the broken interior door that once kept roosting birds separate from standing cows, and up onto the metal platform built to hold tractor implements. We aligned it against the posts. It was about four feet short of the opposite wall, the wall that holds up the hay loft. One handy panel later, we had what we needed. The door sort of worked, although it was too close to the post and the compost heap to really swing open. Still, it was good enough.

Now all we had to do was make sure it stayed where we wanted it. I brought out the bucket that contains my fencing tools. I’ve learned a lot about fencing over these last five years. You can cut anything with bolt cutters, but you need tiny electrical wire cutters if you really want your fence wired tight to your posts. My bucket also contains a socket wrench with the right head for installing the butterfly clamps used on chain link and post fences. But what was that? Why, it was a massive bag of zip ties! I forgot I’d bought those for the PVC rabbit tractor. They might not be baling twine, but they’d do.

Armed with the right tools, I climbed up into the very hot hay loft with a roll of plastic chicken wire to prevent aerial invasions while Christina took another length of the same stuff and began to line the handy panel to prevent walk-throughs. After a few minutes of quiet work, I heard her say, “What are you looking at?” I looked down from my perch some nine feet over her head.

I looked down from my perch some nine feet over her head. One of the Barred Rock hens was watching intently from the other side of the wall as Christina pushed a zip tie through the chicken wire. The hen cocked her head one way, then the other, then back again. Her beak was only inches from Christina’s fingers. When that zip tie was in place, the chicken moved with Christina to the next spot, still studying the movements of Christina’s hands. Then the chicken brought her beak through the fence and tapped at Christina’s glitter-speckled painted fingernails and we both laughed.

About two hours into our ten minute job, we had what we thought was enough chicken wire, zip ties, handy panels and chain link to keep the teenagers locked into their new area, one complete with its own compost heap. Off we went to fetch a couple of cat carriers and bring them back to their new home.

That should have been our first clue–the fact that we could get twenty-odd birds into two cat carriers. Sure enough, as we opened the carriers to let them run, they scattered around the space, two of them exiting through the chain link and into the back pasture. Where one of the Partridge Rocks immediately raced after them and pecked them both on the head.

I was too hot to face another fifty zip ties. There’s a reason I like baling twine; it’s so much easier on the fingers. Instead, I fetched the bird netting. I hate that stuff, but so do birds, javelinas, dogs, cats, deer, cows, sheep, snakes, and any other animal that has the misfortune to get tangled in it. Get one square caught on your button, and you’ll spend an hour cursing as you try to remove it while it tangles in your fingers, your hair, your shoes.

As I put the netting in place, the chicks began exploring their new home. In about three minutes most of them were scratching in the compost heap, chirping happily. The others had gone to the rafter wall where there is a deep layer of leaves and dirt. Yep, this was going to work.

Then, at dawn the next day I discovered that they could also still get through the chain link on the opposite side of their space. No big deal. All I needed was another roll of plastic chicken wire, a hundred or so zip ties and ten minutes.

Truant Teen-aged Chicks

So, I had a brilliant idea the other day. I was in the garden looking at a butternut squash vine, or rather I was looking at a pair of squash bugs mating on the butternut squash vine. Just prior to discovering the squash bugs I’d seen a plethora (or maybe closer to a ba-jillion) little gray and black sapsucking-type bugs on the same struggling plant. A plant that already had two tiny butternut squashes on it.

It was as I squashed the joined-at-the-butt squash bugs (doing so with my bare fingers, something that I couldn’t have done ten years ago), that the idea hit me. I didn’t have to lose this vine, not when I had the perfect bug control mechanism just a dozen yards away. I had hungry chicks!

Not giving myself a chance to look at the obvious flaws in this plans, I strode swiftly for the chicken tractor where my half-grown Barred Rock chicks now live, threw open the door, and got out of the way. I wasn’t certain they’d come out without encouragement, but a few days earlier I’d had their coop pushed up close to the garden fence. They’d gorged themselves on as much of the thick green grass they could reach. Most of them stopped about halfway to the door and eyed the opening with suspicion. That’s when Surprise Chick #1 took over.

What, you might ask me, is a Surprise Chick? That’s a gift from the hatchery I use. If I forget to check the box that says “Do not send me my surprise chick,” I get an extra and unidentified chick. I’ve forgotten to check that box for the last two orders, so I now have Surprise Chick #1, a three month old black-and-white bird that may or may not be a rooster (someone’s crowing down there early in the morning), and Surprise Chick #2, a feather-footed black cochin that came with the barreds.

Surprise Chick #1 is wise to the ways of chicken life. That’s because while the barreds were still in the brooder coop, SC#1 was free-ranging with the Cornish Crosses. By that point the Cornish were too large to get into the garden through the fence, but they’d had a blast working their way around the perimeter, eating all the henbit and lamb’s quarters they could reach.

Once Surprise Chick #1 exited the coop, the others followed. Well, all but three chicks. I swear it’s the same three that can never find the doorway. Instead, they try to follow the others through the hardware cloth walls of the coop.

Once I got those three out of the coop and watched them disappear into the jungle that my garden has become, I stood still and listened. Sure enough, every one of those chicks was making that purring sound that means they’ve found something delicious to eat.

You’d think I’d know better than to be swayed by my own brilliant ideas by now. I can only say that it just seemed so perfect at that moment and I so wanted to save that butternut squash.

You see, letting chickens out isn’t a problem. Getting them back into the coop is. Worse yet, my usual ploy– to remove their food during the day and return it to the coop when it’s time for them to come in– wasn’t going to work. What chicken would choose dry crumbles when they can eat their fill of comfrey and squash bugs?

The obvious answer to that is none.

None was what I got when I put their food back into the coop that first night. I tried adding scratch, which is a mix of seeds and grains. There were no takers. That left me no choice but to trek around the garden with my empty scoop, banging the scoop on trees and sunflowers, shouting, “Time to go home!”

Much to my surprise, it worked. The chicks all raced for the safety of their coop. I should have known that was too easy.

The next evening, I returned their food, threw out some scratch, then went into the garden with the scoop, They were onto me. They now knew the garden better than I do. Every one of them dove deeper into the foliage and hunkered down. They weren’t leaving and that was that.

I dropped the scoop and picked up a long stick. Poking and thrashing at the foliage was enough to send them out of the garden. They stopped a few feet from their coop, watching me as I left the garden. As I started toward them, ready to drive them into their coop, they bolted back into the garden.

I repeated this little crossfit exercise a dozen times. All I managed was to drive the three linear thinkers into the coop. And, of course, once I had them inside, I had to close the door to keep them there. (Even they will eventually find the doorway.) That left me running in two directions at once, driving chicks one way around the coop, then rushing back to throw open the door, then racing around the coop in the hopes that the chicks would jump in before the LTs jumped out. After twenty minutes, I had about two-thirds of them in. Christina took pity on me and helped me herd the rest.

And still I again opened their coop door this morning. As the little birds raced past me toward the garden (all except the LTs, who were again trying to push through the hardware cloth), I could see it in their eyes. They were never coming home again.

Sure enough, no one missed their food or water today. That left me no choice but to wait until dusk, and potential owl attacks, hoping my chicks would come home to roost. Or rather, snuggle together on the ground since there are no roosts in their coop.

Just to be sure this was all worth it, I went to that butternut squash today and turned over the leaves. Not a single sapsucker remains. There are no squash bugs or even golden squash bug eggs to be seen. Gritting my teeth, I waited until the sunlight began to dim. And just like that, chicks began to migrate out of the garden.

That is, until they saw me.

If you haven’t seen half-grown chickens, they appear to be all legs and let me say those legs can move really fast. I made a quick and futile roundup attempt, then backed off. Again, they began to congregate outside the garden fence, only to disappear back into the foliage as I came closer.

We did this a half-dozen times. By now it’s getting to be twilight. Just as I was worrying I’d have to put on a headlamp to search for chicks in the garden, they reappeared out of the greenery and moved across the grass. Lifting my arms until they looked like wide-spread (owl) wings, I slowly walked behind them.

It worked. Although they gave me another little run for my money, with my new partner guarding the door to prevent escapees, they all ended up inside.

We’re taking a day off tomorrow but I doubt I’ll be able to keep that door locked or my garden chicken-free. I mean, there were no–zero, zilch, nada–sapsuckers. I’m checking the kale and collards tomorrow. If they also ate the cabbage loopers, then every hot, irritable moment was worth it.

 

Something Wicked This Way Comes

My comfrey patch

Before I jump into the wicked ways of the world around here, I want to offer multiple updates. First, several years ago I began growing comfrey. I am now a true comfrey farmer. It’s hard not to be a comfrey farmer. Actually, it’s almost impossible not to become a comfrey farmer as comfrey, much like sourdough bread mother, will take over the world given a chance. It proliferates best by root, so spreading it is as easy as digging up a plant, taking its root, breaking said root into pieces, then replanting the pieces.

The sheep eating my comfrey

Why, you might ask, did I want to be a comfrey farmer? Because comfrey is high in protein and I’d heard it could be used as fodder for all sorts of critters. And indeed you can, although my rabbits, who are supposed to love it best, don’t seem to like it much. That’s okay since the sheep, chickens, and turkeys will eat it daily. The sheep polished off two armloads and begged for more.

As for my new turkeys, the merger of last week is beginning to feel comfortable for everyone involved. It’s been fits and starts, mostly because the poults are still learning how to perch on roost. But today, the young turkeys spent most of their day plundering the compost heap in the back barn, which is also my chicken coop. This compost, which the chickens turn daily for me, has become so active that it’s eaten up a dead raccoon and the innards from a few sheep and done it in a week or so. Or maybe the chickens (and now young turkeys) are doing the eating. Either way, it works for me.

Things dead and composting brings me to the sad tale of last week. As I’ve mentioned in the past, I have a hunting mountain lion in the area. I’m not certain that this year’s lion is the same lion that Moosie and Bear put into the willow tree, but after this week I’m thinking it’s possible. At around seven last Tuesday, the dogs and my partner and I were startled by a huge commotion down at the creek. There was a brief scream then water splashed as if a battle was going on. Brush broke. A blue heron flew up to the top of the barn, offering a hoarse and irritable “grok, grok, grok!” At the same time, the dogs tore off the porch. They raced down to the creekside fence. Bear looked upstream and barked like crazy. Rupert looked downstream and barked like crazy. Radha doesn’t bark much, but she was standing next to Bear looking upstream, which means Rupert once again missed the point.

I hadn’t bothered going down with the dogs. The minute I saw the heron, I was sure the noise had been nothing but another skirmish in that poor bird’s never-ending war with the black hawks. I drifted back to breakfast and the dogs eventually returned to the porch, where they settled into the first of their three or four daily naps. A couple of hours later I went over to talk to my neighbor who was out watering her middle pasture. She was asking me about the lambs and if they were old enough to come graze on her property when I caught a movement in the creek from the corner of my eye. I turned to look. It was a White-tailed Deer, a doe.

“Oh no!” I said to Elena. Together, we watched the doe as she walked slowly through what is thigh-deep water. There were bloody gashes in her head and on her throat. A long cut ran from her shoulder to her belly. Although she was still mobile, albeit with the water to buoy her, I could tell from her injuries that she wasn’t going to survive.

That’s when I knew what Bear had known when he’d heard that scream. That lion is back, and it’s hungry.

The only thing I’ve got going for me is that, if this is the same lion Bear treed, she’s still afraid enough of him that his bark was enough to drive her away from her kill.

So, no, the lambs aren’t going next door to graze. They’re staying right here, surrounded by fences where my dogs can keep them safe. Well, at least one of my dogs. Wrong-direction Rupert can’t be counted on, and the night before last something odd happened to Radha. When I went at dawn, she greeted me with her tail between her legs. She couldn’t wait to get inside the house. Once inside, she hid beneath my partner’s desk. When he sent her away, she found another spot to cower. She hid all day.

I’m thinking she got a look at her first predator and didn’t much like what she saw. Maybe because she didn’t like feeling afraid, she decided to take on another critter last night to bolster her ego. Unfortunately for us all, the skunk won. Radha–and everyone else– will be living with that wonderful fragrance for a few days.