Denise Domning's Blog, page 32

Non-vacation, Part II: Our turkeys, our babies

The Universe has eaten my camera.  What that means is that, even if I did take pictures of the turkey poults (that’s the proper term for turkey chicks) , they’re gone until the camera reappears.  Ed says this is “third child syndrome”.  Mom and Dad document everything about that first kid–usually more than necessary, do about half as much for that second kid, but the third kid, well, that poor schmuck is never blinded by the flash.  The turkeys are #3, the Buckeye chicks being #1 and the Buff Orpingtons (their story coming soon) #2.

I found this picture on the Web. Sure wish I could find the camera as easily.

This is a terrible shame because the poults were about as cute as possible, mostly because they came in all colors and patterns.  More importantly, they liked us instantly.  Imprinting, it’s called.  Every time I showed up to feed them, they came running to the side of the brooder (coffin, see the post about Ed’s rolling brooder) chirping in excitement.  “Mom’s here!”

How oh how am I supposed to slaughter something that thinks of me as Mom?  But that’s a problem that doesn’t have to be dealt with for months yet.

Of course, we made our usual raft of mistakes.  First we put pine shavings in the brooder.  Pine shavings are toxic to turkeys.  That was two chicks even though I put all the poults back in their shipping box, turned the brooder on its side, dumped everything out, shop vac-ed it clean and filled it with apple wood chips.  Then we had trouble finding turkey starter, the food they need when they’re little; everyone locally told us to feed them the same thing we fed the chicks, but everything we read said turkeys need a higher protein food than the chicks get.  I solved that by making them fresh raw milk curded cheese and feeding that to them each morning until their turkey starter arrived.

Well, I didn’t actually quit after the food arrived.  They were so cute about begging and so excited about eating out of my hands that I kept it up for almost a month.

Then the summer warmed up but Ed insisted they still needed the heat lamp.  I think we lost the next two because they overheated.  Ed maintains it was because they didn’t get enough electrolytes and water.  WHAT-ever.

At this point they’d gotten so big that I felt they were too big for the brooder.  That was a whole ‘nother argument.  Ed: “They’ll be fine.”  Me: “They’re not fine.  They need to be out eating grass.”  Ed, horrified: “They’re too young to be out on their own.  The hawks will get them.”  Me: “Make them a pen so they’ll be safe while they graze.”  Ed:  “I’m too busy.”  Me: “Fine.  You do what you have to do and I’ll do what I have to do.” Translation:  I stuck some stakes in the ground, wrapped bird netting around and over them, and hand-carried the poults to their makeshift fenced-in pasture.

Here's the pen without the brooder attached

The next day Ed made them their own hawk-safe play pen.   Actually it’s a pretty cool pen.  It attaches to the brooder via a sliding door so they slept in their far safer brooder at night then could go out in the morning to eat grass.  When they’d grazed long enough in one place we just disconnected the pen and moved it, then rolled (sort of rolled, it was more like grunt, shove, oh d*mn we’re stuck again, shove, grunt, ouch that was my foot, shove, ah) the brooder into place and reconnected it to the pen.

And then they got too big for the pen.  That brought us to the next argument.  Me: “They need to be back in the field so they have plenty of grass to eat.”  Ed, horrified: “They’re too young to be back there by themselves.”  Me: “You build it this week or I’m buying something on Craig’s List.  You won’t like it if I have to do that.”

Here it is, their little house.

What can I say?  I know how to light a fire under my man.  He hates the idea of me using “junk” to house his animals.  Take a look at the house he built for them.  Mind you, he put in closet rods for their perches, then changed that out to 2 x 4′s when he decided his babies wobbled too much trying to perch on the round rods.

Now, all of a sudden these (not-so) little guys were living in that distant field after only knowing the brooder with its hardware cloth lid upon which the cats slept.  Let me just say they weren’t very attuned to threats from above.  Although the field is encircled with electric fencing, the air space isn’t.  Within an hour our local Black Hawk came to sit above them in the sycamore.  Needless to say the turkeys didn’t pay any attention until it dove at them.  They raced to the coop, chirping like crazy.  They stayed inside for a few hours, muttering to each other over this strange turn of events.  When they started back out a swallowtail butterfly came drifting past.  That was it.  They were back in the coop for the rest of the day.

They’ve vastly improved over the past weeks.  Now one turkey is elected “Skywatcher” while the others eat.  They talk constantly, letting each other know how things are.  Today a military helicopter flew over.  They all stopped eating and cocked their heads to watch it pass–just in case.

And no amount of fear keeps them from flying out of the coop.  The theory is that they’ll eventually be too heavy to fly.  They haven’t gotten there yet, so up they pop and out they go.  But being the social animals they are they can’t bear to be separated.  The ones on the outside of the electric fence stay right beside the ones on the inside of the fence. What’s the point of escaping if you don’t go anywhere?

See those two in the pen? Who says you can never go home again?

I think they got that concept the other day when all of them finally got out at once.  They drifted from place to place, a flock of thirteen, until all of a sudden they got hungry.  Where did they go?  Not back to their coop where they have plenty of food.  No, they made their way back to their infant pen.  I’m sure they were saying to each other, “I remember this place!  There was always lots of food here!  You remember that cheese Mom used to make for us?  I wonder why she doesn’t love us enough to make it any more?”

 

What I did over my summer non-vacation; So we bought a cow.

This is episode one of what I expect will become a long series that catches everyone up on what’s happened these last months.  Like new gardens, new chickens, new chicken slaughtering equipment, the turkeys, the mountain lion that ate the cats.  What I refuse to discuss is the computer crash and subsequent attempts to restore programs that refused to work.  All that matters is I finally have my Photoshop back.  Of course, the camera has gone missing now.

Back to buying a cow.  Yes, Ed told me under no condition would we ever own a cow.  He was adamant.  Never.  No way.  Forget it.

That was before Leah, Logan and their three children and three milk goats moved into the house across the road from us.  Leah is a Country Girl.  She did 4H.  Her grandparents owned ranches and farms. And she wants that life for her kids.  Mostly, she wants the raw goat milk for her kids.

I loved her from the minute I met her.  We’re on the same page about vaccinations, whole foods, local foods and health.  Leah insisted I start taking what extra produce I have from the gardens to our local Cornville farmers market (every Monday evening at Windmill Park until October).  Before long I began to look at her with new consideration.  Here was the partner I needed in making Green Acres all the farm it can be.

How did I know?  Because someone with her kind of get-up-and-go initiative and only three goats to supply the milk for the Chevre cheese she’s making is someone who’s got to be thinking, “If only I had a cow, then I could really be making cheese.”  This, even after she buys four more goats, none of them yet bred or milking.

Sure enough, Leah dropped by a week ago to just mention she’d seen a Jersey milk cow for sale on Craig’s List.

I mentioned her mention to Ed.  “I’m not milking a cow,” he replied.  “I didn’t ask you to,” I said.  “Leah wants the cow.  We have the space and the grass.”  “Oh, if Leah wants her, then that’s okay.  We can put up the stall for her over Labor Day.”

We’re expecting a houseful of semi-trained hammer slingers for the long weekend.  I’m not sure said slingers know their time is spoken for.  Ed’s sweetening it by buying them all tickets to see Larry the Cable Guy at Cliff Castle Casino.  A boy’s night out, as it were.  I’m sure farting will be mentioned at some point.

So yesterday, Leah and I made the two and a half hour drive to a spot some 30 miles past Seligman on I40 to see the cow.  Well, see and milk the cow.  That is part of the discovery prior to buying such an animal.  I wasn’t doing the milking.  Although I have now milked goats (as of today) I wasn’t yet an initiate into the mysteries of expelling milk from udders yesterday.

Kristy, the cow’s present owner, met us four miles from their small ranch and guided us in.  (She ended up guiding us out as well; we got lost on our first attempt to leave.)  The cow in question is Brighty, a registered Jersey milk cow who is most likely pregnant with her third calf.  (You will notice there is no picture.  That is because I forgot to take a picture.  I’ll add one once Brighty makes it here.)  By the way, Brighty is not her real name.  What’s listed on her certificate is much longer and not very sensible.  Bright is the first word of it, so it got shortened to Brighty, which I mistook for Bridey.  Frankly, I think Bridey is a great name for a cow.

Kristy is the farmer in her family.  She’s collected rabbits, Kunekune pigs, Nigerian goats–now that’s goat’s milk that I could actually drink!–a miniature Jersey named Mercedes as well as Brighty along with many chickens.  These are all kept in a space half of that we’re using for our mere 70 birds.

Brighty turned out to be a sweet-natured, mild-mannered creature with big brown eyes and a mocha-colored coat.  Even better, she’s on the small side for her breed.   I remember my great-uncle’s dairy farm and how huge those Holsteins were.  Oh wait, maybe they were huge because I was small.  At any rate, Brighty’s shoulders reach to breast height on me.  Kristy started the milking, then let Leah take her place.  I watched as beautiful warm milk went spat-spatting down into the seamless stainless steel pail.  Two gallons of milk later, the two milkers agreed that Brighty is an easy cow.  We then discussed the fact that Brighty had spent two weeks in the same corral as a bull, Roy I believe his name was, but Brighty didn’t choose to make a public spectacle of her affection therefore Kristy can’t guarantee that Brighty is actually pregnant.  However, cow in heat plus bull plus Brighty’s lopsided weight gain all suggest she’s carrying her third calf.

Now we’re talking!  Two for one!

After that, we discussed herbal remedies for everything from worms to mastitis, sprouting grain for higher nutrition, and making ice cream.  Because there are three to four inches of cream on those four gallons of milk a day Brighty produces.  Like for that ice cream Kristy and her family agreed to share with us.

Yum.  Really yum.  Just vanilla but really yum.

And then we talked cheeses and cheese making.  Gouda.  (My mind went: OMG!  We have a smoker.  We could make Smoked Gouda.) Cheddar.  Double Glouchester.  Monterey Jack (peppered or not).  Brie.  Kristy’s also selling her cheese making equipment.

But best of all I’ll be making homemade butter again.  Butter made from LIVE milk.

And there it is, me stepping into the middle of the cow pattie as it were.  Leah and I, and Brighty’s present owner all agree.  Milk is meant to be raw, as is cheese and butter.  Pasteurize milk and it turns into a useless liquid that carries chemically created pseudo-nutrients that try to replace what pasteurization has destroyed. No lectures on potential illness will change my mind.  I’ve seen the statistics.  The same percentage of people are sickened by raw milk as are sickened by pasteurized big dairy milk.  All I can say is that raw milk did wonders for my allergies.  When I started drinking it I truly expected to be flattened, because I was sure I was allergic to milk and milk products.  Not only did I have no reaction, but I immediately felt better than I had for a long time.  I have since come to realize that my allergy is to pasteurized milk products.  It isn’t the same and my body, for whatever reason, can’t handle it.

When we got home–with four more roosters to slaughter; Kristy had some “surprises” in the last batch of hens–Ed asked, “So?”

I just grinned.  “We bought her.  Leah and I decided she’ll do the early milking and I’ll do the later one.”

“I’ll look into getting a commercial refrigerator,” he replied with a nod.  “What about the cheese making supplies?  You are buying all of that, aren’t you?”

I knew it!  He was thinking about smoked Gouda as well!  Or maybe he’s remembering the Grass Cheese, a Dutch delicacy.  It’s cheese made from the first milk after the grass appears in the spring, and it is marvelous.

“Of course we are,” I told him, even though I hadn’t discussed that with Leah yet.

He just smiled.

The New Buckeye Chicks

So, here they are, the new bits of fluff that will, hopefully, become the core of our new flock of chickens. These little guys are Buckeyes, the only breed of chicken known to be developed by a woman, one Nettie Metcalf of Warren, Ohio (hence “Buckeyes”). This was in 1896. Go Nettie!  We bought the chicks from Dave’s Buckeye Chickens.  I’ll note here that communication isn’t Dave’s strong suit, but patience and persistence help.  The chicks did arrive with just two dead.  We’ve since lost one more, but I believe it had broken its leg in transit.  The rest are vigorous and lively.

Here they are in their brooder within a brooderS

The breed was developed by crossing Barred Plymouth Rocks, Buff Cochins, and some black breasted red games, and the goal was a breed that could produce well in the bitter Midwest winters. They also do well in the heat. We got a straight run of chicks (meaning we don’t know how many of each sex we got) and will keep one rooster out of these to start breeding our own flock.

Ed’s going to be busy these next weeks because we have another 15 chicks coming in three weeks and, of course, those turkeys. We need some new mobile henhouses, because these guys are going to be pastured.

Yes, it's the size of a coffin

At least the brooder is big enough… .  If the Apocalypse comes tomorrow, we will be able to protect ourselves by climbing inside this puppy.  Yes, it is the size of a coffin (for puff balls small enough to fit in the palm of my hand).  Yes, my husband kerfed wood (cut evenly spaced lines about 3/4 of the way through the thickness of a thin sheet of wood) so he could bend the boards to have rounded interior corners.

Apparently chicks of any sort will gather into corners with such violence that they’ll smother the poor thing deepest in.  The rounded corners prevent this.  When I first saw it I suggested it was a bit on the large size.  That’s when Ed made the mistake of talking about turkeys being bigger than chickens, etc, which resulted in that turkey poult order.

Yes, it’s on wheels, which upsets both me and the chicks when I have to climb inside to feed them…and, yes, I HAVE to climb inside to feed them.  Both sides of the top lift up to open, but the side with the tall stick on it is where the heat lamp is located.   That means the lamp lifts with the top and drags something awful as it moves.  Since the lamp is is where the chicks are, I can’t get to them without getting inside.  Ah well, it wouldn’t be homemade if it didn’t have glitches and it wouldn’t be Ed-made without the quirks.

Here's where they really live...in the kiddie pool under the heat lamp.

Because it is so large, I suggested using the kiddie pool one of us bought a while back for some reason I can’t now remember.  Maybe to use as a brooder?  It’s filled with dirt and topped with wood shavings.  The little guys seem to like it pretty well and already scratching away.  I’m thinking of digging up some worms for the little guys later on today just to see what they do with them.

Garden update

Here's the first one in progress

It promises to be another warm spring day today.  That means a trip to the bale store…only greenhorn farmer types would call it that.  But that’s what it is, the place where I buy the bales of straw and alfalfa I use to build my gardens.  Each time we go the employees ask me what I’m using all this for. (It’s unusual to buy so much straw so frequently.)  Each time I answer, “I’m building a garden.”  And just like clockwork they all look at me like I’m speaking French.  Oh yeah.  I’m a farmer in cattle country.

The first two Lasagna gardens finished and mostly planted

But look what I can do with straw and compost!

Sorta Gringa Enchilada Sauce

This recipe is for Amber Anderson, who loves my enchilada sauce.  I want to start this by saying I didn't grow up in a household of adventuresome eaters.  My dad had an ulcer and, back then, it was treated by eating bland food.  (Of course, we now know ulcers are caused by bacteria.)  And, growing up in a house full of kids–I have four sisters and a brother–mass production was the required cooking style.  That kept mealtime pretty basic, with meat, potatoes and a canned vegie of some kind.  I don't recall ever having fresh broccoli or green beans or spinach.  We did have salads but they included iceberg lettuce.

We did, however, have tortillas in the house.  They were not used for bean burritos or soft tacos.  They were used as pseudo-Lefse.  Lefse, for those not of Scandinavian extraction, is a tortilla look alike made from mashed potatoes, milk, butter and enough flour to hold it together while you roll it out, then grill it just like a tortilla.  When you're done, you fill it with butter, sugar and/or Lingonberry jam, roll it up and enjoy.

Let me say it was shock when I discovered bagels (at 19, when I started at the University of Denver–a lot of Eastcoasters went there so they could spend their weekends skiing).  In the middle of that year I went on an archeological field trip with a group of led by my anthropology professor.  We toured Canyon de Chelley and the pueblos of Northern New Mexico.  It was while I was on that trip that I was introduced to Mexican food.  I had tacos, burritos and, in Sante Fe at a nice restaurant, a sour cream and cheese enchilada.

WOW!  That was it.  I never looked back.  Before long tacos were a once-a-week meal and there were green chilis in my tuna fish salad.  Guacamole is a salad.  I learned to make flour tortillas while living in Holland because we couldn't survive without Mexican food once a week.  When I hit a new Mexican restaurant I try their chili rellenos and their Mole.

And, of course, there were enchiladas.  Me, being me, had to try making the sauce from scratch.  I discovered that using dried chilis was fussy but using fresh chilis was not only tastier but WAY fussier.  That's when I decided this was one thing that needed to be made in bulk, once a year, and I could add both vinegar and tomatoes to the recipe to make it eligible for water bath canning.  So, once a year for a whole day I make enchilada sauce.  When I'm done the kitchen looks like a war zone–tomato, chili pulp and finished sauce splashed from one end to the other.

So here you are Amber, the recipe with ALL the instructions included (I assumed she knew you had to roast the chilis first).

Enchilada Sauce

up to 24 chilis, your choice of heat, minimum of 8
2 cups tomato puree
4 cloves of garlic, crushed
1/4 cup of mild oil (like Sunflower)
1/4 cup of regular or gluten-free flour mix
1/4 cup Apple Cider Vinegar
up to 1 tbsp salt to taste
up to 2 tsps Mexican oregano (there is a difference) to taste
up to 1 tbsp ground Cumin to taste

Choose up to 24 chilis.  The more chilis, the thicker and more chili-tasting the sauce will be.  You can do this with as few chilis as 16.  Anaheims make a mild sauce.  Poblanos are traditional.  Hatch are for people who like a lot of spice in their lives.  Pick chilis that are blemish free and not wrinkled.  (Okay, if you're getting Hatch, you take what you can get.) Wash them and dry thoroughly.  Roast the chilis on a gas stove or a gas barbeque grill or under the broiler.  You want the skin to blacken over the whole chili, so turn them frequently and watch carefully.

Once they're blackened, put them into a bag.  Opinions differ on what kind.  I've always used a paper sack, not wanting to include plastic molecules in my sauce, but plastic apparently works just fine.  Leave them in the sack for about 15 minutes.  THEN PUT ON YOUR PLASTIC GLOVES BECAUSE ONLY AN IDIOT (that would be me) PEELS CHILIS WITH THEIR BARE HANDS.

If you're planning to can this for shelf storage (you can always freeze it in the canning jars and avoid the canning process) this is the point you fill your canning pot with water and put it on the stove to boil.  Put six pint jars (it takes about a pint of sauce to make a pan of  enchiladas) in the water to sterilize and have ready when your sauce is done.

Peel the chilis over a colander set on top of a large glass measuring cup.  You want to capture as much of the chili juice as you can.  The blackened skin should strip off easily.  At the same time remove the stems and seeds.  The more seeds you leave in, the hotter the sauce.

Once your chilis are peeled and that collected juice back into them, then puree in your food processor or blender adding 1 cup of water per 8 chilis.  When you're doing this many chilis you'll be doing this in batches so have a big bowl ready at the side to take chili goop.  After each batch rinse the food processor into your chili goop bowl with more water.  Your goal is to have 8 cups of chili pulp and water when all is said and done.

Once you're done pureeing add the tomato puree to the chili pulp.  In a spacious pot saute the crushed garlic cloves in the oil until brown.  If you don't like garlic chunks in the sauce, remove them at this point.  Whisk the flour into the garlic oil to form a roux.  Cook this pasty stuff for a minute or so, then slowly whisk in the chili-tomato mixture by the cup full to make the sauce.

Add the vinegar, salt and spices.  Bring this to a boil then reduce heat and cook until slightly thickened. Taste, and dance around the kitchen as you realize you might have put TOO many Hatch chilis in this batch.  (Actually it mellows some as it ages.)  Adjust the flavor, which in my case means always adding more Cumin, to your satisfaction.

At this point pull your jars out of the boiling water, putting them upside down on a towel to drain, and add more water to the pan.  Throw the canning jar lids (not the rings) into the water to soften the rubber.  Get your handy-dandy canning funnel out and fill each jar to about 1/2″ below the jar top with enchilada sauce.  Pull those lids out of the boiling water, pop them on top of the jars and screw on the rings.  The easiest way to make sure they're tightened properly is to over-tighten them then back off a 1/4 turn.

If you're freezing the sauce, pop them into the freezer.  If you're canning them, put them into the boiling water, making sure the water level is at least 3 inches above the tallest jar.  Bring the water back to a boil and boil for 40 minutes, keeping the water level at that 3″.  If you have to add water to the pot mid-process, be sure it's boiling when you add it and add it slowly to maintain the boil.  If the water ceases to boil at any time during that process you'll need to add the lost time to the process.

I found this very nice web page that describes water bath canning in detail for those unfamiliar with the process.

Oh, and how to make enchiladas?  For flour tortillas, you can fill them with any mixture of cheese, sour cream, cooked beans, cooked meat, cooked or raw onions and cilantro you like.  Put a small amount in the center of a medium tortilla, roll it up and fill a 5 x 10 or 9 x 13 baking dish  with these, then pour in the whole jar of sauce,  top with more cheese if desired and bake for 30 minutes until the cheese is melted.

For the gluten-free crowd you'll be using the same filling ingredients as above but corn tortillas in place of the flour.  It's much easier to layer these rather than roll them.  So, pour a little of the sauce into the bottom of your baking pan, add a layer of meat or cheese, another splash of sauce, more tortillas, another layer of filling and a final layer of tortillas.  Again, you should be using up the whole package of 12 corn tortillas.   Pour on the remaining sauce, top with additional grated cheese and bake for 30 minutes.

Enjoy!

Good bye sweet Burtie

Burtie helping me create my salad beds back in December

It's been a tough week for us.

I awoke yesterday morning knowing Burtie was gone.  The first thing I asked Ed was if he'd seen him.  Now, the kitten had spent most of the night with us, so I had no reason to think something had happened.  Ed thought he had, but I knew.  An hour later Al stopped by to say that Burtie was in the road.

Burtie was fascinated with Trigo, their palomino and Trigo returned the affection.  I'm sure he'd gone over to visit, then decided to follow Webster across the road.  Webster, being much old and raised in the city next to a very busy street, is far more car savvy.

So here we are again, down to our usual four cats, the number we've maintained for the 25 years of our marriage.  That's not enough to handle the gopher problem, especially now that Nona has decided it's not safe to be outside.  (They must have been together as a group when Walter was attacked; she hasn't spent much time outside since then.)

I really do need cats, working cats.  Cats without names and unconnected to my heart.  I need what I've always wanted for this place: a feral, matriarchal pride of hunters who feed themselves on the bounty that our acreage can definitely supply.

The Warrior’s Game

here's the cover for the last of my existing books...appearing soon in Kindle!

Finally.  After two and a half years editing my existing eleven books, I have completed converting them from either paper or corrupt digital formats into sparkling new files.  Editable files.  Usable files.  Files that don’t fill the page with ASCII symbols.  Thank you LibreOffice!

It will take me another week to turn Ami and Michel from digital file into kindle format.

And, a thousand apologies to all of you out there with Nooks or other epub readers.  As much as I’d like to accommodate you, our financial situation at the moment doesn’t allow it.  I’m so sorry.

The Warrior's Game

here's the cover for the last of my existing books...appearing soon in Kindle!

Finally.  After two and a half years editing my existing eleven books, I have completed converting them from either paper or corrupt digital formats into sparkling new files.  Editable files.  Usable files.  Files that don't fill the page with ASCII symbols.  Thank you LibreOffice!

It will take me another week to turn Ami and Michel from digital file into kindle format.

And, a thousand apologies to all of you out there with Nooks or other epub readers.  As much as I'd like to accommodate you, our financial situation at the moment doesn't allow it.  I'm so sorry.

Farewell Walter

Walter in his favorite pose

It is a week to say goodbye to cats. We sadly bid farewell to our beautiful Walter who was killed yesterday by either a raccoon or a domesticated dog. (Both of these animals kill just to kill, not to consume.) Walter, a gorgeous blue-eyed Burmese mix, came to us through my friend and fellow author Christina Skye, who found him in a supermarket parking lot. He had been a foreclosure pet–an indoor only cat abandoned outside. While on the streets he broke three teeth trying to eat things too hard to be eaten. When she brought him to us he weighed a third of the slim, trim, powerful 18 pounds he acquired hunting up here. And he loved it here, claiming the porch as his own territory, hunting gophers, and cuddling with us when he so chose. We'll miss you Walter.

Goodbye Wilma

Here she is in her new bedroom having her first California meal

This weekend, we said goodbye to Wilma, the mother of our kittens Wilburt (Burtie) and William (Billy). She's a calico and, try as she might, she couldn't acclimate to our multi-cat plus dog household. She was miserable and was making everyone else miserable as well. She hated Walter, our cuddle cat, so much he stopped coming inside at all. Bless my sister! She and her husband so enjoyed Wilma while house sitting they offered to make her an only cat. She has survived the journey and is beginning to settle in out in California where she has 2500 square feet of privacy, and two properly trained people to see to her every need.

As for the kittens, I hate to say that they haven't seemed to missed her.   And since she left I've twice seen Big Gray, the feral male who has made buddies out of all our male cats, close to the house.  I'm wondering if he's now thinking of moving in…