Denise Domning's Blog, page 21

Pig-erator

Pigerator at work

First, I want to thank Joel Salatin for (1) being Joel Salatin and driving the cutting edge of the sustainable ag movement.  He’s the one who coined the term “pigerator” and from whom I learned that you could use pigs to do one of the most important farm chores around–rototilling. He’s used his porcine pals for turning the soil in both forest and meadow.  He’s even used them to make compost out of the crusty, layers of mashed wet hay, straw and you-know-what  that’s left in the barn after the cows spent all winter in it. His solution?  Bury kernels of corn between the layers of detritus.  Over the course of the winter the kernels begin to ferment and we all know what fermented corn makes, right?  Well, that’s a pig’s favorite treat.

I may be new to pigs, but I’m already asking myself how I survived 20 years of growing veggies and fruits without gilts/sows as my right-hand girls?  And it just got better.

Last week, I had electric tape trouble.  For some reason, the charge on the tape I’ve run to enclose my upper pasture area disappears about halfway around the pasture.  I’ve cut, tied, re-run, re-checked and run it one more time with the same result.  While I was busy trying to figure out where the tape is shorting, Oinker and Boinker were figuring out that the fence was…OFF!  Whoo-pee!

They were shooting out under the lower tape and racing back to the rear of the turkey barn, which used to be the cow barn.  My irrigation valve back there leaks.  That’s left layers of soggy, decomposing straw, hay, cow poop, turkey poop, chicken poop and who knows what other poop rife with lots of missed oat and barley kernels.  And worms.  Lots and lots of worms.

The girls were in pig heaven.  So were the chickens and turkeys.  All the best bugs with none of the usual work!

By the girls’ third escape, I gave up and ran tape around a good section of the back pasture, which is really just waste because it’s almost completely shaded by cottonwoods, sycamores and four walnuts.  Guess what? I had no trouble getting the charge to make a complete circuit on this new circle of tape.  Ask Oinker.  She tried the fence in three different places, and was sorry she did.  What the heck is going on with that front fence?

Included in the new pig enclosure is the little yellow turkey coop (the one built to handle my initial 20 turkeys). They love their new home.  I opened the turkey-sized hatch for them their first night and found them snoozing in the dry straw the next, rainy morning.  They came out to check on the food situation, then went back into their little home to laze until the rain quit.  And they are in love with the dirt down there.  Slowly but surely, they’re plowing through the lambs quarters and brittle bush while ignoring the Datura (Loco weed).  They even eat the Goat Head plants!

Heartened by what the girls were doing in the back field, I went to take a look at what they’d left me in the orchard.  I’d noticed last week that the best section of the orchard was cleared.  Three years ago I’d built another of my lasagna gardens on that side of the orchard.  My hope was to smother out the Bermuda and Quack grass that had previously owned the area. It worked for that years, but then I lost control of it by not planting over “The Great Disruption”.  That gave the Quack grass and Bermuda a chance to creep in again. But once the pigs were finished all that was still standing was the Silver Nightshade.

So, armed with my trust Rogue hoe, I started tilling the area that the pigs had been using as their favorite napping spot.  OMG! There is not so much as an inch of Quack Grass rhizome to be found.  Gone are all those prickly, deep rooted weeds and most of the Bermuda. The nut sedge has all been torn loose, if not completely torn free, of beautiful, rich black soil.  The only thing they didn’t eat was the nightshade.  The hoe took care of those in no time.

I’m definitely in love with pigerators!

Greedy as a pig

The sheep occasionally escape over the electric tape that’s supposed to contain them in their piece of pasture.  This isn’t a huge problem because it’s usually only one at a time and they hate being separated, so that one just keeps grazing at the other side of the tape from the rest of the “flock”.  (Do three sheep make a flock?)  The problem is reuniting them since the outlier doesn’t want to be rerouted away from the others.  Thank heavens that all three of them now recognize the gate on the front of the orchard as the way back to home and family.

This morning, Tiny, my no-longer-all-that-tiny ewe, took the big leap and I went down to put her back.  After encouraging her around the orchard, I freed the latch on the gate so that a quick shove would be enough to open it, then retreated to let her make her way back inside.  Just as she got to the gate, Boinker pushed at the panel with her snout and made the Great Escape into the Brave New World between the orchard and the barn.

Of course, this sent Tiny shooting off in the opposite direction.  Sigh. Everything sends sheep shooting off in the direction you don’t want them to go. I need a good sheepdog.

Torn between which to catch first, I chose Tiny and spent the next few minutes sending her this way and that, until she leaped back over the tape and instantly went back to grazing.  Meanwhile, Boinker had embarked on a journey of happy discovery.  Morning glories,  yum! Oh look!  There’s water in this ditch.  Nope, too deep.  Ah, bind weed, my favorite!

Only then did I realize that the gate to my newly planted garden was open.  So was the barn door where all sorts of things pigs find delicious are kept.  Panic put wings on my feet. If she were to get into either of those places, I’d be in a whole heap of trouble, because she’ll never want to come out.  There’s no handle on a pig and I’m guessing she’s well over fifty pounds.

As I sprint for the garden and barn, I’m dickering for Heavenly help at the same time I’m warning the Powers-That-Be that I really don’t need chasing pigs to be my next crossfit routine.  I reach the garden just in time to slam the gate in her face, then leap over her to yank down the barn door.  She pauses to watch my shenanigans, then, still grunting happily, she starts slowly up the ramp that crosses the ditch and leads up to the house, making a snuffling examination of everything along the way. But at the top of the ramp is my new lasagna garden full of…melons!  Argh!

All of a sudden, the light bulb clicks on over my head. I need THE BUCKET.  All the animals on the farm know THE BUCKET. Good things show up in THE BUCKET.

So I run up the ramp (see the reference to crossfit above), then up the stairs onto the porch, from which the dogs are now exiting because they want to see what the pig is doing. At the top of the stairs I notice the dog leashes.  Can you leash train a pig in just a few minutes?  I’m desperate, so it’s worth a shot.

I take a leash, jog inside to grab the treat bucket, then realize I have the best piggie treats ever in the fridge just now. This weekend I slaughtered chickens for a friend and came home with heads, innards and feet.  I meant them for the dogs, then remembered that pigs love meat even more than dogs. In fact, just this morning my two little gilts enjoyed a bunch of raw gizzards.  So I fill the bucket with more offal, and return to the porch and offer up prayers of thanks.  Boinker and the dogs have retreated back down the ramp to explore the fence around my garden.  Boinker is grunting in ecstasy as she roots through the thick sod while Moosie and Bear look on.

Even from a distance I can see the gears in Moosie’s head turning as he presses his nose to the gorgeous black earth she’s exposing.  “What’s she looking for? Gophers? Mice? Squirrels? Oh yes, squirrels for sure! I’ll help her look for squirrels.”

There aren’t any gears in Bear’s head; he’s just a pretty face.  Instead, he’s watching Moosie, hoping the little dog’s gears turn up the word “Play”.

I race back down the ramp (good, a counterpoint to the run up), all the while certain that I’ve got her.  When I reach them, I shove the bucket under Boinker’s snout.  She snuffles politely, then looks up at me.  I can see it in her eyes.  “I appreciate the gift, but no thanks.  These grubs are much better.”  Back she goes to rooting.

Ack!  A perfect ploy perfectly foiled! It’s time for Plan B, which I only then realize is much more like Plan Z.

I set aside the bucket, which the dogs immediately knock over just in case it’s something they want.  Because this is Boinker, I start scratching her back.  She’s long since given up waiting for the joy of scratches to overtake her before she faints.  Instead, she slides instantly down my leg to lay on her side, making her belly available.   I slip the leash over her head as I give her what she wants. She opens one eye at this strange change.  She’s not even panicked as she gets to her feet, shakes her head and takes a half-step back.  Hogs don’t have necks.  The leash comes over her ears and slips off her snout. Once that unfamiliar thing is dispensed with, she returns to my leg and again slides down to the ground, begging for more scratches.

Goldangit! Now what?  I don’t have a Plan Z-point-1.

Or do I?

I look behind me at Oinker, who has been pacing the orchard fence making her usual quiet little grunts as she watches the comedy playing out across the sod.  I blink.  What an idiot I am! She’s not watching us.  She watching THE BUCKET.

Gotcha!

Giving Boinker a last scratch, I reach for the now-empty little blue bucket.  Yuck.  I have to scoop what the dogs spilled back into the bucket.  For the record I probably wash my hands a dozen times a day due touching yucky stuff.  Once I’ve refilled the bucket, I start for the orchard gate.  Yep.  Oinker is definitely waiting for treats.  I glance hopefully behind me. Not so Boinker.  She’s gone back to grub hunting.

“Hey, piggies,” I call, worried now.  That calls usually brings not only the pigs, but the sheep and turkeys as well.

By now Oinker’s squeals are so loud that they’re echoing.  I again glance over my shoulder.  That’s caught Boinker’s attention.  She’s turned to look in our direction.

I watch it happen.  I see the instant she realizes Oinker’s going to get something that she’s not. It doesn’t matter to Boinker that she doesn’t really want what’s in the bucket.  All that matters is that she’s being left out.

Yes, hogs can run and they’re surprisingly fast.  Boinker reaches the orchard fence by the time I’ve spread the offal out onto the dirt in front of Oinker.  Bursting past the dogs, Boinker has dived, snout first, into the slimy pile of guts almost before Oinker has gotten her first mouthful.

“Oh you greedy little pig,” I tease her but it’s not really a tease.

I can’t tell you how glad I am that this proved to be a fact rather than something someone just made up.

Writer’s Block

Well, that’s going to be my excuse for today’s post…that I have writer’s block.  It’s not really true.  Nor can I blame my delaying tactics on the view outside my window even though what I see has cast a paralyzing spell on me.  I tell you, the grass and trees are so green with chlorophyll they’re practically drunk.  It’s affecting my creativity.

I know!  It’s the flies! Holy smokes, but the flies abound this time of year.  The more rain we get, the more the flies hatch.  And with all the raw manure around here, well, you get the idea. My skin crawls every time one of them lands on me.  I remember an article in National Geographic, I think it was, about a woman riding camels across the interior of Australia.  She talked about the masses of flies landing on her, crawling all over her exposed skin, even covering up her eyes.  Oh gag me with a spoon! I’d rather die.

Or perhaps it’s that my dogs are sleeping at my feet, filling the air with the tainted stink of skunk.  I chastised them roundly this morning for getting skunked and not killing the offending animal.  Or maybe they did kill it and I haven’t yet found the corpse.  I know exactly where the event took place.  I think the word miasma really fits for what lingers at the site of that epic battle.  However, a search of the area revealed no sign of a Cruella deVille striped critter.  Dang.  I’m thinking it lives to fight another day.

Yes, all of those are possible reasons for not getting back to my “real” occupation, but the truth is that I’m sharpening pencils.  All of the writers out there reading this know just what I’m talking about.  The moment has come.  I must start the next murder mystery and I’m avoiding it like the plague.  Pencil sharpening is what Erma Bombeck called this delaying process and it still fits, even in a digital world.

I really thought I had myself corralled.  After all, I’d given myself until August 1st to be “on vacation”, i.e. just farming and doing computer work that didn’t include writing books.  Just like clockwork, the first day of August rolled around and, bam!, I knew who my murder victim was.  I was pretty impressed by that.  A day passed and then another, and potential murderers begin to lurk in the corners of my mind.  Happy to let my subconscious gnaw on the sprouting ideas, I waited for the title to appear.

Even writing that last sentence astounds me.  Until I started my last mystery, I believed I was incapable of titling. Plotting, characterization, description, yes.  Titles, no.  I just didn’t have what it took–I told myself–to boil down the plot into a few catchy words that encapsulated the book.  Then, with that last book, the title jumped out at me bringing with it the whole plot.

I mean, like Wow!  Who knew it could happen like that?  It happened again yesterday when “A Final Toll” popped into my mind. And just like the last time, those three words brought with them the whole book: setting, characters, murder and motives.  Whew.  I do have one more book in me after all.  For that, I give thanks to the god of writing, or whoever it is in whatever pantheon that’s responsible for publishing.

So this morning I should have put my seat in my chair and started typing out the synopsis, or rather the half-synopses that pass for my mystery outlines.  Unlike my first thirteen books, which all had 35 plus page synopses, my mysteries come with half an outline.  It ends at the point where my sleuth begins interviewing the suspects.  I don’t have a clue (pun intended) what happens after that point.  It’s all in Sir Faucon’s hands and I don’t know who whodunit until he tells me.

But did I put myself in front of the computer and create the directory for the new book, then open up Wordperfect and input the title?  No I did not.  I transplanted tomatoes–I’m experimenting with raising a late summer crop of tomatoes.  The new little seedlings looked really lonely in their bed so I added some baby arugula and chard.  Then I seeded in some lettuce in case it decided to rain today (fingers crossed!).  After that, I went to meet with the treasurer and archivist of the Cornville Historical Society, where I immersed myself in the history of Cornville (Cohanville).  Why? Because of my friend Dennis wants to collect stories from the old-timers.

That’s right. Instead of starting the mystery, I’m beginning a book about the history of Page Springs Road.  Like I’ve ever been able to write two books at once? Now this is some serious pencil sharpening.

At least I’ll have something to do this winter.

 

Here kitty, kitty, kitty

The Willow Tree

Well, it’s been one of THOSE weeks again.  It kicked into high gear on Thursday morning.  Just as I finished morning chores and went inside to brew tea, the dogs went crazy, barking and going on. This isn’t unusual and I figured it was a critter walking on the hillside across the road (which it usually is). But after 5 minutes of non-stop barking, I decided I really needed to check.  So I sauntered out the kitchen door.

To my surprise, I found the two of them under the huge willow tree that sits at the upper corner of my property, right on the fence line, or more to the point, right where Page Springs enters my property.  That’s why it’s so big.  It has a constant source of water.   It is a beautiful tree, that is, as long as you don’t mind walking through its trailing branches which are often home to some odd looking spiders…white ones.  Shudder.  I make it a point to give it “haircuts” every so often so I don’t feel like I’m hacking my way through the jungle to reach the gate that lets me visit my neighbors.

Bear was standing directly under the tree, his front paws braced on the nice teak bench I placed under the tree but never use (see above about the strange spiders).  For all the world, it looked like that 120 pound canine thought he might just give tree climbing a try.  That’s pretty un-Bear-like.  I mean, we’re talking about a dog who responds to my whistle with a look that says “I have to come right this minute? I don’t think so.”  On the other hand, Moosie is dancing circles around the tree trunk, his gaze fastened above him, looking at something I couldn’t see behind the screen of draping branches.

I grimaced.  Another raccoon.  Dang it!

Although my neighbor Al has given me a rifle to keep in my house for just such occasions, I don’t know how to work the thing.  I’ve used a rifle once in my life.  I was twelve and weighed in at 65 pounds.  It knocked me for a loop, literally.  Thus, Al and I agreed that I would keep the rifle for him, cutting minutes of our trip to wherever the dogs had their critter trapped and thus giving the coons less time to escape.  But Al was on vacation.

That left me only one option.  I was going to have to convince the boys to let this one go.  There was no way I was going to listen to them bark for the next few hours. Or days.  Moosie doesn’t like to give up on raccoons.

So, I duck under the sweeping branches and lift my head to see where the coon was, only to stop dead in my tracks. 

HOKY SMOKES!  It wasn’t a raccoon.  It was a kitty.

A very very big kitty.

That’s right, my wonderful livestock guardians had treed a mountain lion.  The same lion, I’m sure, that has taken at least twenty-five of my sitting turkey hens over the last three years.  The same lion that all three of my neighbors have seen, but I have never caught so much as a glimpse of.

I froze where I stood, some two feet of so away from the trunk of that tree and stared up at that kitty perched on the lowest branch, about three feet over my head. It–she, I think–stared back.  She was about the size of Moosie, without her very long tail that is, so about eighty pounds. That’s forty pounds less than Bear.  It was a pretty sure thing that she wasn’t coming down as long as Bear was right beneath her.

By now, my heart was pounding.  All I could think to do was grab the dogs and drag them into the house.  And drag them I had to!  Bear was not giving up his new kitty toy and Moosie, well, we all know what Moosie wants to do with the things he traps.  

It took me a good five minutes before I had the boys locked in the house.  Only then did it occur to me that I should document this moment with a picture. From behind the glass of the kitchen window. 

I grabbed my phone and moved to the window.  It was instantly clear I had no reason to fear the lion coming for me.  She was down from the willow and dashing back and forth in obvious panic along the fence line. Argh!  Right through my tomatoes!

I poked my head out of the kitchen door and watched her make the journey from willow to tomatoes to willow seven times, moving so fast that the one photo I finally thought to snap only shows a tawny blur.  On that seventh trip she must have finally remembered that she knows how to jump.  Over the fence she went, moving at top speed away from me. 

That, I’m pretty sure, is the last that she and I will see of each other.

Yet more storms and catsup

It rained all night last night, leaving Oak Creek once again Willy Wonka brown.  Plus, the water is very high, or at least higher than it’s been since the last flood, which was up to the back of my barn and rerouted the creek to the other side of the island.  That’s good, at least according to my neighbors, who really miss their swimming hole.  That’s bad for one tiny little turkey poult.  The little ones are so small they can go where they shouldn’t.  Judging from Mama’s position and the level of her distress, this one must have threaded itself down through the thickest portion of the blackberries–well beyond anyone’s help–to drink from the ditch.  I’m thinking that the unexpectedly fast water caught it and swept it away.  Mama will stand and call for another hour, then move on with her day.  I walked the ditch to the end of my property, just in case.  I didn’t find it, but I could have.  Turkeys are surprisingly strong paddlers, even at a few days old.  It’s possible that it could have made it to shore. The problem is that without feathers, the baby will be cold and once a chick is cold, death is imminent.

I’m looking outside at the clouds building again, and smiling.  Why?  Well, for sure we needed the rain, but…drum roll please…I happen to be sitting inside IN THE AIR CONDITIONING!  Wa-hoo!  The new unit was installed today.  This required three guys and a trip to the orchard so they could taste the pluots.  None of them had heard of the fruit that both my pigs and sheep favor over mere apples.  Truth be told, I hadn’t really heard of pluots until I discovered the tree in my orchard.  I thought it was a plum at first, because pluots look a lot like the plum-side of their family, but they have a thicker consistency.  That comes from the apricot side of their family.  That’s right, pluots are a plum-apricot hybrid.

When I first arrived here, the two ancient apples and the pluot tree were the healthiest looking of the seven surviving trees in my incredibly poorly situated orchard.  That’s not saying much because there were more dead than live branches in the “healthy” trees. Someone must have had some sort of plan behind putting these trees where they are but I sure as heck can’t imagine what it was.  I mean, it’s the only area on the property without access to flood irrigation.  Maybe Old Sam Frey figured the sort-of drip irrigation system he installed was enough.  Not.  Absent owners make for failed systems, and that’s what happened here.  To make matters worse, each tree was staked with only one t-post–a metal fence post–driven into the ground right into the tree’s roots.  Most of them grew around their stake.  So, damaged by the stakes and lacking consistent deep watering, the trees clung to life with nothing but rain to keep them going.

pluots

Once I arrived, things changed.  I removed the dead trees and severely pruned those who showed even the slightest tendency toward staying with me.  Except for the pluot.  So many of its inner branches were dead and the aphid infestation was so bad, I didn’t dare remove anything.  I actually expected it to die.

Instead, consistent water was all it took.  That plucky little tree set on fruit like crazy that summer (my second summer owning the house).  There was so much fruit, I didn’t know what to do with it all.  That’s when I discovered the recipe for Plum Catsup. I figured pluots were close enough, so I made the recipe.  OMG!  It was amazing…sweet-sour-tart and sauce-y.

I didn’t make enough.  So that next spring I waited with bated breath only to be disappointed.  The tree took a break from producing fruit that year (as apricots are wont to do).  For that entire summer it listless, suffering with aphids and leaf curl.  Disappointed, I waited, hoping the aphid eaters would eventually show up.  And so they did.  There was some fruit again the following year, but no time for making catsup.  Then the next year, to my surprise, there was fruit again although not much.  I made my catsup but made it in one big batch (that’s the problem with having really large pots–you tend to think you can make really big batches via simple multiplication).  It was a bad idea.  Mathmetically, I was supposed to use six 2 inch long cinnamon sticks.  That was too much and I ruined the whole batch.  Know your cinnamon sticks.  Some are really strong!

I didn’t expect any fruit last year, but I was wrong to the tune of gallons.  Unfortunately, they all ripened at the exact same moment that I began my adventure as a single sixty-year-old.  So the fruit went off to farmers markets and to any neighbor who even cocked an eyebrow at me when I mentioned I had extra fruit.  That left me watching and hoping for a crop this year.  I got it! Apparently keeping the cows in the orchard over the winter was a good idea.  The tree has flourished so well that I’m almost ready to cut out that dead central branch.  And, I’m picking fruit by the five-gallon bucket, then hitting the kitchen to make catsup.  Small batches this time, so I can control the cinnamon.

What do you do with Pluot Catsup?  It makes a great barbeque sauce, or as a dip for cooked chicken and turkey meat.  Personally, I think it truly shines as a topping for meatloaf, especially turkey meatloaf.  Derek, my renter, suggests it would be awesome on cheesecake as well, but I’m not a cheesecake eater so someone else will have to try that. Oh, and did I mention it’s the most amazing shade of hot pink?  That some stuff!

 

Plum or Pluot Catsup

1-1/2 pds Plums or Pluots, pitted and quartered
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1/3 cup packed light brown sugar (I use raw cane sugar mixed with organic molasses)
1/3 cup Apple Cider Vinegar
1/3 cup water
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp ground ginger
1/4 tsp ground allspice
1/4 tsp freshly ground black pepper
1/8 tsp cayenne pepper (1 small pepper)
1 cinnamon stick, 2″ long

Combine all ingredients.  Bring to a boil, then lower heat and simmer at medium low 35- 45 minutes, stirring occasionally, until plums are soft.  Remove from heat and let cool 10 minutes.  Remove cinnamon stick, puree.  Fill sterilized glass 1/2 pint jars (that’s basically one serving), wipe rim, fit with canning lid and ring, screwing lid on until it’s almost tight.  Stand upright in a pan of boiling water, the level of which is 3 inches higher than the jars and  to which 1/4 cup of white vinegar has been added (prevents unsightly crusty build up).  Keep water boiling for 10 minutes, remove jars and set them on a cloth-covered counter top.  Check for a solid seal after the jars have cooled.

 

 

Another storm’s on the way

I missed my Monday deadline because a HUGE storm blew in.  The winds were so strong that my grill went skidding across the porch until it hit the table.  Cushions were flying.  Taking an cautious approach, I turned everything off for the duration.  And then I didn’t even lose power.  Go figure.

So right now, I’m typing as fast as I can as yet another storm makes its way in my direction.  The wind is picking up, so wish me luck. The first thing is to let all of you who have offered explanations regarding Boinker’s name, yes, I know that the British use the word Boink as a euphemism for something that Boinker will never do in her short life.  I don’t care.  If you could see these two little shoats play, bashing snouts against each other, the American version of “boink” is very apropos.

As for Boinker, she is definitely “Sum Pig”.  What a character! She loves getting scratched.  This is because she’s a little white pig in Arizona.  Rather she would be a little white pig except this is Arizona.  That makes her a little PINK pig.  The poor thing sunburns. Next time I’m getting black pigs under the assumption that they won’t sunburn as easily.  But you know that thing about “Assume-ing”. However, I feel I have gathered some evidence in support of my assumption.  Oinker, who has large black spots doesn’t seem to burn as easily.

Anyway, because Boinker is always peeling, she is far more open to being scratched than Oinker, who remains shy.  And Boinker does love her scratches.  As I work my fingers along her spine, her eyes close.  Her back arches.  If I keep it up, she begins to list.  Then, as I continue scratching, she crumples, falling onto her side.  Her little piggy legs go stiff and straight, her eyes close, her mouth partly opens.  At this point I can scratch her belly, her legs, her sides.  She doesn’t care.  In fact, for all the world, she looks as if she’s gone into some sort of catatonic (pig-atonic?) state.  As you can see from the photo, she pretty much looks dead.  Or exceedingly happy.

And two of them do seem happy in their new home.  I mean, what could be better than an airy little house that protects you from the sun while you root happily in rich soil full of worms, grubs and other subterranean life?  When you’re tired of doing that, you can run out into the pasture and chase the sheep.  B & O have discovered that they’re just tall enough to reach the stray hunks of wool that are presently peeling off the sheep.  This causes the sheep to startle but it doesn’t seem to scare them much, because after the pigs are done nibbling at the loose fiber they all go off and graze together.

I took this photo this morning to prove to the doubters that the pigs really don’t mind the turkeys

A number of people have asked me about allowing my turkeys and sheep near the pigs.  They usually follow the question with a horrendous story about somebody’s hogs killing a chicken or dog or cat or whatever. Allowing my turkeys? Like I have a choice?

The turkeys make a beeline for the orchard as soon as I open their coops.  They love the sprouted grains and yogurt that make up the pigs’ breakfast.  They love the pluots, they love the apples and they love the patches of dirt that the pigs have exposed, where there just might be more worms available.  Even if I closed the gates to the orchard, the turkeys would simply fly over and help themselves.

It may be that such murderous events await in my future. (Yes, those are my toes in the picture with Boinker and, yes, I’m reconsidering entering the orchard with my toes available for nibbling–Oinker tends to eye them with more interest than Boinker.)  But at the moment, this is one big happy family here on the farm.

As for the storm, it’s circling and I’m hoping.  I still don’t have A/C and the storms always make the temperature drop.  They also bring the rains that have turned this place into a veritable jungle. For example, here’s a picture of that lasagna garden I started back in March.  Today, the straw almost completely covered with Crenshaw melons, tomatoes and peppers.  The sunflowers I transplanted and the roses I put in the tubs are going great guns despite the heat.

On the whole, everything’s out of control.  The pastures are so thick that the turkeys have carved paths through the foliage.  I’ll bet it looks like a crazy map from above. The pathways are disappearing under grass and the…wait!  Who is that masked man operating that new wheeled weed whacker?  Okay, it’s not a mask, it’s an orange helmet with a mesh face guard, worn by my renter Derek.

That’s right, I’ve been tool shopping again.  I not only bought myself an electric hedge trimmer (works on Quack grass), I got its sister the electric weedwhacker (good for tight spaces) AND the new wheeled weed trimmer.  It’s Derek’s new toy at the moment.  It pushes like a lawnmower but has a string cutter instead of blades.  This means the machine can go over rocks, tree branches, piles of who-knows-what and still be cutting grass.  My neighbors Al and Elena got one first and I fell in love.  If I don’t have to work first thing tomorrow morning, and if it doesn’t rain tonight, I’m taking it out into the pasture for a test drive.  Whoot!

 

 

Elsie

I got the call early last week.  Elsie’s new owner was in tears.  “I had to let you know,” Becky said.  “Elsie’s dying and I don’t know why.”

My heart sank. That stubborn, pig-headed, incredibly tenacious creature couldn’t be dying.  It just wasn’t possible.  I mean, Elsie hadn’t just calved.  That’s the danger zone for cows. “What’s happened?” I wanted to know.

Becky described how for months Elsie had done nothing but improve, learning how to tolerate being hand-milked, even keeping her milk to a steady gallon a day, despite that it was now almost a year since Hannah was born.  Then, three week ago, they’d received a new shipment of alfalfa.  Not their usual, but some from a different farm.  All the other cows had loved it, as had Elsie at first.  Then she stopped eating.  Weight melted off her.

Becky said she’d tried all the usual treatments, then called the Vet.  Now, I have to preface this with the fact that there are very few COW veterinarians around here.  Most large animal vets treat horses, not bovines.  But the doctor came out and shot Elsie up with minerals, and all the other things Becky asked her to try.  To no avail. Elsie was still off her feed.  Then she went down.

It’s bad when cows go down.  Their very intricate digestive system depends on them moving to keep all the acids and enzymes in balance.  If they go down, digestion goes to you-know-where and then they die.

Becky was certain Elsie was done for.  “I just wanted you to know.  I didn’t want you to think I just let her die.  Do you have any suggestions at all?” she almost begged.

There was only one answer to give.  “Bolus her up with Vitamin C,” I said.  “Mix it with water and Apple Cider Vinegar, and shoot it into her mouth.”  My recommended dosage?  10,000 milligrams four times a day.

Becky was skeptical.  “That much?”

“What have you got to lose?  It can’t hurt her at this point,” I replied.

So, that’s what Becky did, but only twice a day.  By the end of Day One, Elsie was back on her feet.  Halfway through Day Two, she was too strong for the fourth dose.  After that, she was fine.

Coincidence?  Maybe.  I mean, maybe she was getting ready to come back strong.  Maybe if Becky had done nothing, she would have been fine.  But I don’t think so.  Vitamin C is THE miracle drug.  It supports the immune system so the immune system can get its work done.  By the way, humans and guinea pigs are the only mammals that don’t manufacture their own Vitamin C.

Anyway, back to Elsie’s comeback story.  So once I got the news that Elsie was back to normal, I asked if I could come visit.  As much work and hassle as they were, I miss my cows.  Becky agreed, so off I went this morning.  As I drove along the rutted dirt road that takes me into their farm/ranch, I saw Miss Els standing in the corral.  She looked very good–not like a cow who had just had a brush with death.  I smiled at that.

After sharing what’s been going on in our lives over tea, Becky said something that floored me.  “You know, I just can’t let Elsie and Sadie”–they had renamed Hannah to Sadie–“be together.  The minute they can reach each other, that heifer is on Elsie’s teats!”

I sat up straighter, startled.  “Still?” I demanded.

Becky nodded.  “I think that heifer is addicted to her mother’s milk,” she went on.  “I mean, they’ll connect any place they can, even through a fence.  And if I separate them too far, they bellow for each other.”

I was stunned. Nothing had changed in 6 months!  I thought it was just greenhorn me, unable to wean Hannah from Elsie.  But here was a woman who’d kept dairy cows for more than 20 years, and she couldn’t do it either.  We went through the possibilities…that they were just really attached to each other, that Hannah should have been bottle-fed, that Elsie was traumatized by losing Dixie and Brighty a little more than a year ago and just didn’t want to give up another one of her “herd”.  I reminded Becky that for three days after her herdmates had died, Elsie stood on their grave and bellowed for them, as if begging them to return.  Or mourning for them.

Then I suggested that maybe Elsie is just a natural “nurse” cow, a cow who simply likes raising calves.  I remember how nonchalant Brighty had been about her calves, and how relieved she’d been to have them off her by month 2, forget about month 3.  Becky bottle-feds all her babies, to prevent the sort of attachment Elsie has for Hannah.  Now, she’s reconsidering.  It would be nice to let a cow do the feeding in the middle of the night.  However, Elsie has great dairy cow teats.  For a hand-milker, that’s hard to ignore.

By the end of our conversation, Becky was saying that Elsie was almost dry.  Once Elsie’s out of milk, she’s going to let Sadie/Hannah and Elsie graze together.  The timing works.  Becky’s new bull will be ready to do his work in 4 months, which is when Sadie/Hannah will be ready to become a cow and Elsie will be more than ready to have a new calf to make her own.  Perhaps, if the two of them are pregnant together, then calve together, they might just bond into their own little herd.  This is what I think Elsie wants.  She wants her OWN girls, not these other cows that she didn’t get to choose and doesn’t really like.

“That Look”

Yep, that’s my Elsie.  Stubborn, picky, pig-headed, beloved, sweet, silly girl.

After that, Becky and I walked out so I could say “hi”.  Georgie had just been moved to the far pasture, too far to go out for a visit. Elsie and her precious heifer were in the close corral, separated by a cement wall.

Elsie watched me walk up to her.  Her eyes were bright.  Although she looked a little thin, to me she looked more sleek than starved.  “She’s putting her weight back on,” Becky told me as I extended my hand to Elsie’s nose.  My former cow sniffed, then sort of sighed.  I scratched her forehead like I used to.  She took it for a moment, then I saw it.  That look.  Her eyes narrowed.  I could read the message with ease.  “You’re the one who sent me here when I didn’t want to go.”

Hannah/Sadie

As she took a backward step, Sadie/Hannah stuck her head through the corral on the other side of the cement wall from her mother.  Her gaze was fastened on me.  She gave a half-moo, half-huff.  I walked over and started talking to her as I scratched her forehead.  I swear she grinned.  She brought her nose up to mine and we snuffed at each other, just like we used to do.  That was it.  She presented her head and let me scratch under her halter, behind her ears…anywhere I wanted.  The whole time she made funny little pleased huffing sounds.  Meanwhile, Elsie is standing near the wall, her liquid cow gaze on me the whole time.

Am I anthropomorphizing?  Turning cows into creatures with human-like abilities to feel and remember?  Or is this just what cows are…creatures capable of feeling and remembering?

Just like the powers of Vitamin C, I’ll leave that to you to decide for yourself.  Just know, I miss my cows.

 

Boinker and Oinker

Yes, the little gilts have names now, thanks to my friend Ken Sanchez.  The bolder of the two is Boinker (bold oinker) while the shy girl is just Oinker.  Of the two, I can see that Oinker has the sweeter nature even though she hangs back and isn’t willing to let me touch her…yet.   I love the way they both make eye contact and want to connect verbally.  Both of them have already established that I’m the “food-delivery system”.  That makes me their favorite non-pig.

So, what have I learned thus far?  That too much stimulation isn’t any better for shoats than it is for toddlers, so keep the visitors to a minimum. Boinker was getting a little aggressive after this weekend.  My brother-in-law Courtney came up with his daughter Hannah and one of Hannah’s friends.  They left midday just as Ken and my writing pal Holly Thompson appeared.  Boinker was definitely thinking about nibbling at toes by then.  It turned out that Moosie’s toes were first on the list.  Much to his credit, Moosie exited from the orchard without so much as a blink of a reaction at this.  That was huge, considering that he had had them pegged as “prey” when they first arrived.

That both girls are fascinated with Bear’s fur.  Why, oh why, can I not be like the rest of the modern world and carry my cell phone with me?  (When I went to wake up Hannah and her friend Saturday morning, both girls were sound asleep with their hands curled around their phones.  Both brought their phones to their faces as they stirred.)  Bear went into the enclosure and laid down beneath the apple tree.  Both shoats went dashing over to him.  Boinker crawled along his back, snuffling in his fur, then climbed onto his side and stood there for an instant before sliding down between his paws where she started nibbling at his toes. That stirred the big dog into half-raising his head.

That little piggies really love taking naps.  I was worried the first few days when they both disappeared around eleven.  Then, the grass was still tall enough that I couldn’t see them nestled in their shady rolling coop.  The arched roof that covers the back two-thirds of it is just high enough to catch the breeze and, because it stays dark in there, I suspect the grass remains cool and moist all day long.  Then on the third day I caught Boinker snoring.  Mystery solved.

That it doesn’t matter how many tubs of water you give them, they’ll get into all of them for a quick dip, then roll in the mud they made after their first dip, only to go back and deposit said mud into their drinking water.

That an electrically charged line set at 12-18 inches absolutely keeps the two of them where I want them. I think they may have been familiar with that setup before they arrived, because they were very hesitant to get close to it when I first installed it.  This morning, Boinker decided to try it with her nose and shot backward, squealing at the top of her impressive lungs.  Boinker has a lot to say for herself.  Poor Oinker accidentally backed into the line and gave a choked cry that for all the world sounded like “Yike!”

On the other hand, electric strand fencing has not proved effective for containing the sheep even though I ran three strands to almost 3 feet in height.  Wool appears to be an insulator.  That said, both of the sheep did touch their noses to the lines the other day.  For the next four hours (which may be the limit of their memory) they avoided the lines and stayed where I wanted them.  After that, they disappeared from their bit of pasture.  I suspect they were grazing and, with their heads down, reached through the fence without connecting soft tissue to the line.  Because there was no zap, they just kept going.  Toby and Tiny seem to have bonded with the turkeys, because each time they’ve escaped, they’ve gone back to spend time with the birds.

Other things worthy of note…both sheep and shoats love the bind weed!  It’s their first choice for nibbling.  After that, the shoats will move on to the plantain while the sheep go for the lambsquarters (imagine that!)  All of them ignore the heavier, dense grasses and, thus far, the nightshade and the Italian Endive that I planted–no, not planted; I simply tossed out seeds–two years ago. Can’t say I blame them.  The nightshade is thorny and the Endive is very, very bitter, like Chicory.  It’s also incredibly persistent and is outperforming the nightshade.  Since I’ve been told that hogs will eat the nightshade, I’m hopeful that they might also come to enjoy the Endive as well.  The sheep like peaches, apricots, pluots and apples, especially if they’re a little soft.  So far, the shoats have turned up their snouts to the fruit.  I think this may be because they’re still taste-testing what’s being offered to them from the ground.

And, much to my neighbor’s astonishment, the little girls really do graze.  Although she’d been around hogs more than once in her lifetime, those pigs had always been kept in sties and fed table scraps and hay.  She didn’t believe me when I said I would put them in the pasture and they would eat grass.

As for feeding them, I started them on pig chow at the rate my book suggested for their age only to have huge wastage (well, not really, since I gave their leftover food to the turkeys…but if I hadn’t had turkeys, their discards would have gone into the compost).  I’ve since cut the amount in half and still had wastage.  Today, I gave them half of that half for breakfast and saved the second half for dinner.  If there’s leftovers again tomorrow, I’m cutting the amount back one more time.  This means they really are satisfying themselves on the grass!

So all in all, I think I can say my first week as the owner of these two gilts has been a roaring success.  More importantly, funny things are once again happening on the farm.  At last!

 

 

Got Pigs?

Years ago, I heard an NPR article about a hog rescue farm.  The farmer said (and I’m paraphrasing), “Dogs have masters, cats have servants but a pig thinks everyone’s a pig.”  That, and years of reading Mother Earth News, sparked my fascination with pigs.  Or rather hogs.  Only porcine babies are known as pigs.  Once they’re weaned they’re known as weaners or shoats.  Females that haven’t had babies are gilts and males that won’t be making babies are barrows or bars.  Sows are mamas and boars are daddies.

So, I just brought home two little weaner pigs, both gilts. And before you ask, yes, they will both be meat.  Okay, as silly as this sounds, I’m positively giddy about raising these little girls.

Or maybe it was the smell in the car on the way home from Chino Valley that had my head spinning.  Holy smokes or rather, stinky pig!  These little girls weigh in at about 30 pounds each, a little on the small size, but in their fright at suddenly finding themselves in a dog crate going around the hairpin curves between Jerome and Prescott Valley, they left quite the mess.  Let me say, it was better to be hot and breathe than close the windows, turn on the AC and gag. As we made our way back over the mountain one of the girls kept making a funny snorting sound.  At first I was afraid she had the sniffles, which, according to my book on pigs (yes, I am once again teaching myself about raising hogs via the written word), might indicate respiratory problems.  Not.  I think she was carsick.  Once we hit Cottonwood there wasn’t another sound from her.

Once I made it home, I drove down to the orchard, where I had already set up their new home–their own personal hog tractor.  What, you might ask, is a hog tractor?  It’s a home on wheels.  While they’re little, it will keep them contained and safe on a 12 foot by 5 foot patch of ground until they’ve grazed the grass down.  Once they’ve eaten up the grass, turned the soil while looking for worms and left the same stuff on the ground that they left in the dog crate, I’ll grab the rope handle of their home and move them forward 12 feet.

I don’t have much hope that the tractor will last all the way through this season.  It started life as a chicken tractor built by my friends Kai and Meghan.  It’s mostly corrugated and chicken wire.  Because these are pigs and not chickens, some alterations were necessary.

Gulp.  It was my first attempt at building anything, and let me say I have a far way to go before I master power tools.  That said, I’ve now got a working familiarity with drills, hands saws, a sawsall, and whatever the heck that saw in the middle of the work bench is called.  I really wanted to try out the table saw–I would have liked to have cut a long piece of wood in half. But I just couldn’t get up the courage to try it on my own.  The refrain, “You’ll shoot your eye out” from A Christmas Story became “You’ll cut your hand off”….  So I punted and kluged together this and that until I got what I wanted.

The original tractor now has hardware cloth in place of chicken wire on the uncovered front as well as an attractive red door that’s wide enough to let a good sized hog pass.  It’s not a sturdy piece of wood, so I went back to my roots and gave it the modern version of a Medieval door lock: a piece of wooden round closet rod held in place by braces.

But, the tractor isn’t really meant to keep them confined, day in day out.  They’ll only live in it until they’re big enough to protect themselves and/or win over Moosie.  (He was way too excited to see them in their little house. It took me a bit to realize he thought they were Javelina, which he chases.)  My intention is to use my electric tape fence to confine them on a good-sized area of the pasture while they sleep in their little camping trailer.  When they’re grazed out that piece of pasture, I’ll move them to the next area.

And what do the girls think of their new home?  Well, I manhandled the dog crate out of my trusty Ford Focus, dragged it to the opening of their tractor, opened the crate and tried to dump them out.  They clung like limpets, which is kind of strange.  How did they do that with hooves? Humph.

I dragged the crate back out of the tractor doorway, upended it and grabbed the black spotted one by her back feet.  She grunted in surprise, but before she knew what was happening, she found herself in the shady end of her new home.  Her wattled sister followed with a screeching “You’re killing me!” squeal. (That didn’t help much with Moosie.)  I sent her to the back of the tractor as well.

Silence followed.  I quickly fastened the door and beat back Moosie, then made my way around to the shady end of the tractor. Both girls had their snouts deep in the calf-high grass and were audibly snuffling.  Then I heard it.  Smack, smack smack, crunch.  My book suggested that moving them was likely to put them off their food for a while.  Apparently not when they go from eating alfalfa and pig chow to fresh grass.

It’s been an hour now and the last time I went down to check on them, they came up to the chicken wire barrier to press their snouts to the dogs’ noses.  Even I got a long once over, although I suspect it might be a while before they forgive me for that ride.  I tried throwing them a few apples, but they’re still examining the grass, tasting this and that, to inspect those little green balls might be. Once they do, I’ll have them eating out of my hand…literally.

Yep.  I should have done this four years ago.  Got pigs?  I do!

 

We’re all melting

What a week!  Okay, so I know other places are hotter than Cornville but I don’t know that I’ve ever been more miserable…not even when I lived in Corpus Christi, Texas or New Jersey. I’m a Westerner, born (Montana) and raised (Denver, mostly) and have lived most of my adult life in Arizona (Phoenix, mostly).  It’s dry out here while on the other side of the Rockies mid-summer days can feel as though like someone turned on a sticky, warm, trickling shower.  The only upside is that my hair curls in the humidity.

Well, it’s curling now even though I’m sitting inside my wonderfully air-conditioned house.  This, when it’s cloudy and only 94 degrees outside.  That’s the result of living in Phoenix for so many years.  Anything under 100 degrees isn’t really hot.  There are big fluffy thunderheads cresting over House Mountain, building steadily higher and growing ever more white.  Of course, what I can see over the mountain is really up in Flagstaff.  Now, that’s mind-bending.  How tall are those things? But those thunderheads and the storm they precede will likely never reach Cornville or me.  That’s because of the hills, mesas and mountains that surround this place.  We have our own little storm-prevention shield.  Instead, we have to watch as storm after storm drops needed moisture everywhere but here.

I’m not the only one inside just now. The dogs are sprawled on the floor near my desk, happily enjoying the fan.  Moosie is laying on the clean floor, and it will be clean when he gets up to go back outside.  Bear is like the character Pigpen from “Peanuts”.  He sheds dirt in large, continual clouds, leaving piles wherever he’s stayed for longer than a moment.

Outside, some of my birds are snuggled deep into the clover in the pasture.  I irrigated last night and the soil is still moist and cool.  The others are under the trees at the back of their barn.  I have a leaky irrigation valve back there that’s created a nice little mudhole.  From youngest to oldest, the birds take turns standing in the glop, then make their way to the ditch and rinse their feet.  Apparently, this has a cooling effect.

That’s about as close as I get

As for the cats and the sheep, neither of those species–at least of the members of those species that live on this farm–seem affected by the heat or humidity.  On the patio, one of my cats is sound asleep on my patio, stretched out on the NEW cushions I got for my outdoor furniture, while down in the orchard the sheep don’t even seem to be panting despite their wool coats. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.  Both species originate in the Middle East.

Now as for the the deer grazing in my lower pastures… Oh, did I forget to mention them? That’s right, the cows moved out and the deer moved in.  I can’t blame them.  It’s lush down there, and that’s because of me.  I couldn’t stand seeing some of my land dying under a layer of river rock, so over the prior three years I rotated the cows down there, hoping their their leftover hay and manure might encourage growth.  It did! And of course now I don’t have any large ruminants to pasture in the area.  That’s left me with 5 foot tall foliage and no access to the creek at the moment.  Hence the deer.  A few days ago Moosie and  I scared off a young buck, his antlers still in velvet. His hooves clattered and splashed on the rocks in the creek as he made his escape.  For that moment I heard my cows again.  I do miss them, although the sheep are beginning to get more interesting and more interested.

Then again, I have pigs coming next week. I hear they have personality.

I still can’t believe I did it.  I bought two little gilts.  Oh geez.  I’m either crazy or a born farmer.  State of my suspect mind aside, at 94 degrees outside, with air so thick and wet it feels like I’m swimming in it, my hair is in ringlets.  I’m definitely melting.