Denise Domning's Blog, page 5

Duck Eggs

I’m late this week because yesterday was harvest day. (Non-meat eaters should skip the rest of this paragraph.) Ten ducks, all twenty-four of my full-grown and startlingly heavy Red Ranger chickens, plus six more chickens for a friend. I started around dawn. My ranch manager/farm assistant Christina, bless her, joined me later to learn the process. Christina has helped in a number of slaughters now and is finding it fascinating in a scientific sense. But then, her mother is a scientist and has “sacrificed” many a rabbit.

We were done around 2:30 PM. It was a full day of hard work and the birds are now in refrigerators. They’ll rest there for three days, passing through rigor mortis, before I once again pull out the forty gallon pot and shrink-wrap them for the freezer. Why in the fridge for three days? Because, unlike commercial houses I don’t use formaldehyde to prevent rigor and I don’t like eating tough chicken. The chickens are edible in three days. Just so you know.

Now onto duck eggs. I knew those ducks were laying eggs, but I hadn’t seen an egg in months. What I had seen was the ducks coming and going out of the little yellow coop more or less on a daily basis. The puppies would follow shortly thereafter. I figured they were getting to the eggs before me. I tried going out early. No eggs. I saw a duck going under the coop. I looked into the tiny gap between the bottom of the coop and the pond bank. Big enough for a duck to squeeze into, but definitely too small for puppy access. No eggs.

Then, as I mentioned in an earlier post, I started letting the ducks out to the ditch. I thought surely I’d see eggs on the ditch bank, what with the puppies locked into the pasture away from the ducks. And I did. One. Then weeks later another one.

This is how I decided I needed fewer ducks. Well, that and the fact that as tasty as ducks are, they’re unbelievably noisy. I’ve never had animals with so much to say about everything–even things about which they know nothing, which is basically everything. Something flies overhead and that’s a two hour discussion for that flock, with at least two ducks doing the “neck thing”. They’ll bend their necks, put their heads to the side of their breasts, then make a weird “yakkity-yakkity-yak” sound as they move their heads up and down. Their hours-long conversations weren’t limited to daytime. Unlike chickens and turkeys, these ducks never seem to sleep. Let me say, if they got going with one of their polemics at night, I didn’t sleep either.

Deciding to cut down on ducks was one thing, how to do it was another. I knew I’d get the seven that had imprinted on the brooder coop as home. But what about the older, noisier group? Because they spent their nights in the pond, that meant having to wrangle ducks at dusk when they can’t see well, most likely doing most of the chasing in the cold water with the clay pond bottom stealing my boots.

Then, four days ago the seven younger ducks started for home and the older ducks decided to follow. I opened the door wide and stood back. The two flocks chattered a bit– yes, doing the neck thing– then the older ducks turned back for the pond. The next night, they again followed the younger ducks to the brooder coop. This may have had a lot to do with Radha the puppy beginning to practice her bird catch-and-release skills on them. That dog! She has interpreted “no chase” to mean “chasing is okay if you don’t kill them.” We’re working on it.

I watched the two flocks with my fingers crossed, praying for a miracle. And…in the older ducks went and I closed the door. All I had to do was not open the coop door for thirty-six hours when we reached D-D-Day (duck death day). I felt bad about them having spend their last day locked in, but at the same time, I wasn’t going to spit in the eye of such a gift.

Guess what I found in the brooder coop the next morning? Three duck eggs! I gnashed my teeth at how the puppies had cheated me over these months then went on with my day. Later, when I was walking past the pond, I noticed that the water level was very low. Then I noticed that the water was clear for the first time since I let the ducks live on it. (I also grimaced as I saw the piping and poles that are now permanently embedded in the pond bottom, held in place by a thick layer of muddy clay. I and others have tried to remove them more than once, but they won’t budge. But that’s another story.)

Then something caught my eye. Something white and oval-shaped. I stopped and stared. There was another white oval shape not far from the first. And another. And another! There were dozens in there. The ducks had been dropping their eggs while swimming.

I’m not the only one who’s noticed this. Radha has recognized what those things are. She’s now doing her best to get to the eggs, but she hasn’t yet figured out how to put her mouth over them without breathing in water.

Omelets await me in the future! The brooder coop alley is now officially the home of the ducks. That’s because when I went to let the ducks out this morning I found two lovely duck eggs waiting for me. The ducks aren’t yet convinced they want to be there, but I told them, “Hey, what’s not to love about spending your day swimming the ditch and your nights eating all the food you want while safely locked away from predators and puppies?”

I’m sure they’ll spend the day discussing this and get back to me when they have an answer.

Farewell to Moosie

Moosie, caring for one of the many babies he helped deliver.

Oh, but this is a sad post to write. Even knowing the possibility of losing Moosie loomed didn’t make it any easier when the moment came. Worst of all, the day came much more quickly than I’d hoped for the very best dog in the world.

Moosie, as I have mentioned in previous posts, had tangled with a javelina some years ago. But only this year did I learn he’d broken his scapula in that battle. The bone healed incorrectly and his whole shoulder was now misaligned. Add to that Moosie’s utter determination to climb trees, clawing with his injured leg, to reach whatever varmint he’d chased into it, and it was a recipe for muscle, tendon and bone disaster.

By the time he could no longer put his left front paw on the ground, the destruction of his leg was more or less complete. I knew right then I was going to lose the best dog in the world.

From the very beginning Moosie was my dog–his choice more than mine as I was still pretty much a confirmed cat addict when he came into my life. Our connection grew steadily stronger as the years passed and we ultimately became partners in farm work rather than owner and pet. He walked with me every day as I did my chores, leading me to the next job on the list and reminding me when I missed something. His eyes were always on me, waiting to see if there was anything else that needed doing. If a critter needed me, he would find me. When one of my four-footers gave birth, he was there, ready to help clean the baby and bring it to its feet.

The calves belonged to him from their first breath, and woe to any cow who thought otherwise. Poor Elsie! When he came to take her heifer Hannah for a walk, she charged him. He not only stood his ground but barked so viciously that she instantly backed off. And then he took Hannah off to teach her to dig for gophers, just as he’d done for all my other calves.

And yet, he was a killer extraordinaire. At least thirty-nine raccoons, more than twenty skunks, otters, beaver, countless gophers and mice…and probably close to forty turkeys and more than thirty chickens. We finally came to an agreement. I locked all the two-footers up at night, he didn’t kill them during the day.

For the past three years he had the occasional shoulder issue, almost always following an attempt to climb a tree. Each time, I’d force him to stay on the porch for a few days and sneak him a few pain killers. A few was all he every took. He disliked feeling dopey (pun sort of intended) and understood pretty quickly that the pills were hidden in his food.  He’d eat his food and spit out the pill which Bear almost always ate, just because.  After a few days of rest, he’d be back to his usual self.

And then he wasn’t.

That’s when the vet discovered the permanent and unfixable damage to his shoulder. We talked then about the possible outcomes, which including him becoming a house dog (impossible), amputation (equally impossible), and of course, that last one. I told her then that the last one was the only viable option for this dog. Moosie might physically survive the loss of his ability to move or his leg but his soul would never survive his loss of freedom. He lived to work the farm. All his joy came from protecting the property from those things he loved to kill.

The weeks passed and nothing we tried gave him any long-term relief from what was clearly becoming wracking pain. This was because the instant there was the slightest improvement of mobility he’d be off at a dead run, destroying what little gain he’d made. Then, aching again, he’d mope sadly on the porch, spitting out pain killers as he watched Bear, his best friend forever, play with Radha.

Two weeks ago, I noticed that the muscles in his left hip began to spasm on and off. By favoring that left front leg, he’d been overworking his left hip, causing yet more physical damage. That’s when I told the vet that turning Moosie into half a dog would kill him just as surely as the permanent solution. Having gotten to know him, she agreed with me but suggested I try one more option. So I started adding Hyaluronic Acid to his food.

Hope stirred when after a week he began to look and act like his old self. He played with Bear and the puppies in the evening. He walked the property with me in the morning. At two weeks of treatment, I had my dog back. Breathing in relief, I left Bear on the porch with Moosie for the night so they could again patrol the property together as they’d done every night for the past five years. Moosie was in his glory. They were both barking at the back fence at midnight.

The next morning he was limping. By that afternoon he was clearly in agony. Christina, my ranch manager and pet massage therapist, offered to work on his shoulder. As she reached for him, he put his mouth on her hand, something he only did if he thought her touch would hurt more than help. She pointed out a swollen area across his shoulder. His hip muscles were spasming.

That’s when I knew.  I called the vet to come. When she arrived she confirmed my worst fears. He’d torn both muscles and tendons and might even have rebroken his scapula.

He was in my lap as he went. He’ll be in my heart forever.

Miracles

I’ve been enjoying a series of tiny miracles lately.  Let’s start with the ducks. Who knew they’d be so easy to manage (so far, knock wood)? The past three evenings the not-so-little-anymore Tractor Supply ducks have appeared at dinner time and followed me to the brooder coop, which they clearly think of as home. We reach the coop, they walk in, I close the door and little ducks are done for the day.

The older ducks consider the pond home and while they would like to be as well-behaved as their little cousins, getting back to the pond means running the gauntlet of puppies and sheep. I’ve twice made the mistake of using food to encourage them to be both bold and FAST. Both times, either the pups or Tiny drove them back out of the pasture. Apparently Modesto Chicken Layer Pellets is the food of the gods as far as dogs and sheep are concerned to the point of encouraging a war between the species. The other night Tiny drove off Miss I-will-surely-starve-to-death-if-I-don’t-eat-every-morsel-I-find Kali. That says something about how scary a determined ewe can be if she chooses to hold her ground.

With that lesson in mind, last night I locked the puppies into an alleyway with their dinner, locked the lambs in their nightly alleyway with hay, closed the gates on the ewes, and opened the front pasture gate. In walked the older ducks, talking at the top of their voices about how easy their commute was that night.

Then there are my back pasture miracles, starting with my laying hens. At about 3:30 PM every afternoon, my hens begin to gather at the back pasture gate, waiting for me. Well, not me exactly, but the compost bowl. This all started during those two weeks when I had to lock up the hens due to puppy and eagle predation. Trapped in their bleak little grass-less prison, the birds would eagerly watch me coming at feeding time, carrying the big aluminum bowl I use for compostables and an armload of comfrey flowers and leaves.

When I finally released the hens to again free range, I discovered that like Pavlov’s dogs, they salivated at the sight of that bowl. I feel like the pied piper with all my hens following me to their coop. The minute the last girl is in, I close the door and, et voila, chicken duty is finished for the night.

In what may be the biggest miracle of all, I’ve got my five turkeys once again living in the back pasture. As much as I miss having Tom up here–he truly misses being available to serve as the official farm greeter–I haven’t yet forgiven his hens for breaking into my garden. They stripped the leaves from every darn one of the kale plants I was counting on to supply me through the winter. It made it worth my while to hire someone to retrofit the small coop at the back of the property.

Of course, getting the turkey hens to identify that coop as “home” took a few nights doing my least favorite crossfit routine, that of herding turkeys. Tom, of course, is easy. He sleeps where I put him because I carry him where I want him. After three nights of rounding up fast-moving turkey hens, the girls knew where they were supposed to roost.

There are two reasons that they now go in easily at evening feeding time. One, I installed a handy panel barrier (how I love handy panels!) in the chicken coop doorway to prevent sheep and puppies from entering. It turns out that even the smallest turkey girls are too big to slide through any of the openings. The second is that, with that barrier in place and the turkey coop door closed during the day, the turkeys no longer have access to their commercial feed until I say so. Last night all five of them were waiting at the door to their coop. I walked in, put down their bowl, tossed a bunch of Black Oil Sunflower seeds for Tom, and by the time I was backing out, everyone was inside and eating. Hoky Smokes, Bullwinkle! For anyone who’s done that awful crossfit routine with me, you know exactly how huge this miracle is.

Today’s little miracle was very satisfying, if not earth-shattering. You may remember that a couple of weeks ago I separated the lambs from their mothers to wean them.  I knew then that I’d have to also separate the ewe lambs from their brothers and cousins. This morning, I was on the porch enjoying breakfast with that new guy in my life, when I heard Rosie’s little girl once again crying for her mother.

The words just popped from my mouth. “I think it’s time to put the little girls back with their mothers.”

“Okay,” he says, somewhat startled by my strange pronouncement. I think he’s getting used to my non sequiturs.

Rosie’s little girl called again. I stood up and there she was, standing right in front of the gate I would need to open to send her to her mother. Still wearing my morning attire (I like doing my chores in my PJs as it suggests that I’m not really awake–like chores are just a dream), I went down to the field, opened the gate, herded her a little and there they were, Rosie and her girl touching noses then going off to graze together.

Because that had been so easy, I turned around and looked for Mari’s little girl, the shyest of all my lambs. Unbelievably, she was standing near another gate that would take her right where I wanted her!

Certain I was asking too much of what had already been a pretty satisfying miracle, I went up to the gate. She watched warily but didn’t move. I opened the gate a little, and one of Tiny’s boys was on the move toward the lamb-sized gap. His big brother, The Albino, and Mr. Headbutts–who is Mari’s son– came running, in case something interesting was about to happen.

I spread my arms and urged the boys to one side. I expected the little girl to dart away. Instead, she held her ground, watching me. Grabbing a nearby handy panel (see above about me loving those things), I put it between the boys and Mari’s girl, opened the gate and the little girl walked right out behind me. She called. Mari came running.

Two small gates later and Mari’s daughter was aiming for her mother’s teats. For a moment I worried I’d made a mistake. Then Mari headbutted her daughter. The message was clear. No more milk for you! And off they went to graze. Unbelievable!

There have been no lonely lamb cries since then. I looked down at the front pasture a little while ago, and the boys were all pressed against the front fence, chewing their cud. Well, four of the boys were cuddled together chewing their cud while Mr. Headbutts was snuggled next to his best friend forever, Kali.

You may note in this photo that Kali is wearing her training collar. That’s Mr. Headbutts’ fault. That sheepish little imp just loves to whop the puppies with his head, then race away, daring them to chase him, which they cannot resist doing. Unfortunately, none of the other lambs are as excited about this game. I warned Mr. Headbutts that he has to stop that or I’ll be putting that collar on him.

Daring Ducklings

As you may recall I got seven new ducklings for 50% off from Tractor Supply in August. In one short month they are now almost the same size as the grown ducks. Although this was exactly what happened with my previous ducklings, I remain astonished. That’s probably because I’m comparing them to my chicks, the ones that arrived August 5th. The chicks are now fully fledged but they’re still so small.

For the record, I think I’m going back to the Cornish Cross (or the Cornish X, as they’re sometimes called). I decided to try these Red Rangers because they’re supposed to be far less susceptible to bone breakage, not that any of my Cornish Cross broke legs. I expect that’s because the Red Rangers grow more slowly. They’re also supposed to eat more grass. Thus far, both these things seem true, however taking longer to grow means they eat more purchased food. For sure, they’re a prettier bird than the Cornish X, which is short, dumpy and boringly white. If I stay with the Red Rangers, it’ll be because they taste better than the previous batch of Cornish. Frankly, I find it hard to imagine. Even raised over the hottest months of the summer, those Cornish are pretty darn delicious.

But this post is about the ducks and ducklings who have this week proved themselves to be far more daring than I expected. I mean, these are birds that waddle off in the opposite direction if anyone so much as looks at them. If you sneeze, panic definitely erupts.

What I most feared finally happened. Seven ducks in my pond is too many. They ate up all the pond grass. My first clue was that, after being fairly indifferent to the commercial food I was offering them, they began to beg for it. Then, they began to run at me when I came with scoop, moving at top speed, talking at the tops of their ducky voices, which are impressively loud. That was really unusual for these flighty birds (who don’t fly).  So I got down to water level and took a good look at the pond. Yep. Harvested clean to the bottom.

That left no me choice. I opened the front pasture gate and set the ducks free. I did this only hoping I could figure out how to get them back inside the pasture fence at night. This is not because I’m afraid of some outside predator, say an otter, killing them in the ditch. It’s Moosie. As I’ve said, we have an agreement. I put my birds away at night and he doesn’t kill them. He’d love nothing more than to chase and kill the ducks in the water at night.

The older ducks in the ditch

While I was hoping they’d graze in my orchard, they instead made a turn and headed for the ditch. Down the side they went and into the fast moving water. I was only willing to let them stay there because the current in the ditch is powerful and I have a weir of sorts back by the turkey barn, to keep things from swimming around the gate and escaping the pasture fencing. That means the ducks can’t escape my property in either direction.

The first evening, this flock responded very nicely to the sound of their food shaking in the scoop. They came into the fence, ate their dinner then spent the night on the pond. The second evening, they were a little more reluctant to leave the ditch. Two of them ended up missing the gateway and had to be chased down and put inside. Day three dawned and they ignored the food I spread for them on the ditch bank. Uh-oh.

Sure enough, bringing them in that night included getting wet. As I started into day four of ducks in the ditch, I spent some time watching them. They were little eating machines, cleaning algae and roots off the brick wall that frames one side of my ditch channel, eating the grasses and newly sprouted plants on the ditch bank, and nibbling on crawdads when they caught them. No wonder they weren’t interested in their food!

This was the same day I realized that the seven ducklings had outgrown their little tractor. So I let them free, thinking surely they, who had spent time–albeit confined in a little pen–in the garden, would stay where they were familiar. I was also certain they’d avoid the ditch because of the grown ducks. After all, when I added the three duck hens to my flock, the established ducks reacted aggressively toward the newcomers.

Silly me. I didn’t count on a duck’s determination to be part of a flock and live in duck heaven. By midday the little ones had gone down to the ditch to investigate. The instant they saw other ducks, they slid down the bank and into the current. There was much noisy discussion among the older ducks, but World War D did not immediately ensue. The elder ducks first tried denial, drifting a little downstream, trying to avoid the newcomers. The ducklings followed. That started another noisy conference among the oldsters. This time, they swam upstream. Again, the ducklings followed.

It’s almost one flock

By mid-afternoon, detente had been achieved. The two flocks were about three feet apart, floating in the water as they grazed the side of the bank in beautiful, peaceful silence. That is, until they saw me watching them, and they all exploded into commentary. I’m sure none of what was said about me was good.

Although the ducks had settled their differences, I hadn’t yet figured out what to do about nightfall. As sunset approached, I was back in the water, chasing ducks. It didn’t take long to discover that if I sent the ducklings upstream into the strongest current, they ended up paddling like crazy and getting nowhere. That made it easy to pluck them out, two at a time, and take them home. Then I went back for the older ducks. Apparently, older is wiser in a duck. They let me push them upstream, then made a swift turn to port and shot past me on their way back downstream. No way was I winning that battle. I went up to make dinner, all the while worrying about what would be left alive the next morning.

The miracle happened as dusk gave way to real darkness. All of the sudden the older ducks were at the pasture fence, waiting to go in. I ran down, confined the puppies, just in case they decided to chase the ducks which they were likely to do, opened the gate and…in the ducks waddled, the drake first and all his girls behind him single file.

Yes, I said it. My ducks were in a row.

This morning, the two flocks are again quietly enjoying the ditch and its bounty. I’ll wait until just before dark tonight before I shake the scoop of food. Wish me luck, because, for critters who have always seemed constantly panicked, they have a daring streak a mile wide.

 

Sad Little Lambs

That’s right. It’s weaning time. Yesterday afternoon I locked the seven little lambikins into one of the alleyways, away from their mothers. No more sheep milk for them!

For the first few hours their mothers weren’t the least upset about this. After checking on their little guys from the other side of the handy panel, they acted like they were having a “girls’ day out.” When I opened the gate leading to the orchard, they shot through it and spent more than an hour grazing on thick green grass, nibbling on newly set on winter squash and, for some ungodly reason, eating my Serrano pepper plants. What animal (other than idiot humans) eats whole Serranos?  As they grazed, they’d occasionally respond to their crying babies, doing so without even lifting their heads from the grass. It’s as they were saying “Sorry, kids! Sink or swim!”  Even Mari, the best mom of the bunch, turned her back on her babies.

It wasn’t until time for the usual evening feeding rolled around that the ewes paused to consider that they no longer had access to their babies. They returned to the front pasture without having to be chased. I had the gate to the next pasture open for them, but– as I expected–they stopped in front of the alley in which I had imprisoned their babies.

Of course by now, even Tiny’s three little guys are crying at being separated from Mama. Tiny has already pretty much weaned her three. I wasn’t surprised by that, not with three and not with The Albino (that’s sort of become his name) now half her size. That makes The Albino the same size as Milly’s giganto-lamb, Blackleg.  Mari was the only ewe who was still consistently nursing her babies, Rosie having always been slapdash about her little girl. But then, Mari’s Mr. Headbutts and his sister are the smallest of the seven.

As you can see, even when I forbid myself from naming my critters, they end up with names. This includes the free replacement bunnie/buck that the breeder very nicely and unexpectedly sent to replace the rabbit who died from stress last week. His name explains it all: Scaredy Bunny.

Moving Scaredy Bunny from the cat carrier to his new cage resulted in my arm being seriously scratched. He then huddled at the back of his cage for the remainder of the day. That had me worried that, like his brother, he wouldn’t last the night. Instead, he was still alive the next morning. But when I opened his cage to feed and water him, he panicked and tore around the cage in frantic circles. I started to slam the cage door closed but he was through it before the latch clicked.  As he hit the ground I figured he was done for. I was back there with Moosie and there’s nothing that dog likes better than to chase rabbits–they’re fast and unpredictable. Luckily for Scaredy Bunny, he sat on the ground and looked around him in complete confusion. Perhaps because never seen the world except through rabbit wire? I was incredibly grateful that, this time, when I picked him up all he did was scream like he was being killed.

There hasn’t been another escape attempt since and, as of today, we seem to have achieved a rapprochement. He touched his nose to my finger this morning and stood quietly as I opened the door to add hay to his cage.

Back to my upset lambs. The mamas considered their trapped babies for a bit, then walked into the next pasture where they began to call. The babies called back. And so the evening went, mamas calling, babies answering. It’s always startling when I realize how unique each animal is. Each of these lambs has a distinctive voice. Blackleg is especially identifiable. If he were human, I’d say he’d grow into a man with a profundo basso voice.

As night fell, the calling become even more urgent. I moved the moms into the alley next to their babies, thinking they might snuggle up to the fence to be close to their babies. Only Mari spent any time near the fence line. Tiny, Rosie, and Milly went where the grass took them, still calling to their babies. It was as if they were saying, “I’m right here, darlings. You’ll be fine.”

Oh, yeah. It was definitely time to wean.

For the little ram lambs, this separation is permanent. Since I refuse to castrate due to the possibility of Tetanus, they won’t be going back in with their mothers. The two little girls will eventually rejoin my ewes, but only after I find a ram to borrow and am certain my four ewes are pregnant once again. That means at least a month apart. Here’s hoping that it doesn’t stay as noisy as it is now for the next thirty days, otherwise earplugs may be required.

 

Rabbits

The time has come the Walrus said to speak of many things,

Of ships and string and sealing wax, of cabbages and Chins…

Yes, I’m borrowing from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, but that snippet is the only piece of poetry (if that’s poetry) that I know, and I kept repeating it today, “Chins” being the way I was saying the shortened breed name for my new rabbits.

Three American Chinchillas, a largish, very pretty, lush-furred gray rabbit, arrived yesterday. This breed is on the “critically endangered” list according to Wikipedia. They came to me from Peoria (Arizona, not Illinois) via new friends, who have a rabbitry in the Rimrock/Camp Verde area.

I’ve been working toward this moment ever since the puppies arrived. With four dogs eating bones and raw meat I needed a new meat source that was even faster growing than sheep. It occurred to me that rabbits might fit this bill. I mean, they breed like…rabbits, right? So I did what I always do before taking on a new animal. I bought a book about raising rabbits, one used by millions (or so it claims) to set up their own rabbitries.

I keep using that word– rabbitry– because I’m in love with it. It has a very Medieval feel:  rabbitry, piggery, apiary. I wouldn’t be surprised if in one of my future mysteries a character shows up who’s raising rabbits in a rabbitry, only I’m pretty sure no one kept rabbits in 12th Century England.

Actually, the book was great and included every bit of information I needed to know. Like the fact that bucks (male rabbits) are sterile when the temperature rises above 90 degrees and that you always bring the does (female rabbits) into the buck’s cage for mating or you’ll have a dead buck. Yikes! And they look so sweet and innocent. There were also instructions on where to keep your rabbits, how to minimize care by making sure the manure drops where you want it instead of all over the place, that rabbit manure is the best garden amendment ever and can be used for a worm farm, as well as step-by-step instructions on how to build your own rabbit cages.

Which of course, I had to try. I recruited Christina to help. Our first cage didn’t quite have square corners and somehow the roof ended up a little too big. The second cage was a huge improvement on the first, but that third cage…wow! By then Christina had fallen in love with J-clips and the J-clip fastener. As I held the welded wire panels together. she went “snip, snip, snip” fastening it into a finished cage.

At first I thought I would put the rabbits into the open area in my back barn, where the cow stalls used to be. But as I tested that area over a few weeks (recommended by the book), I discovered it was surprisingly airless in that open area, even when there was a strong breeze blowing. So I walked around the corner and into the alcove beneath what used to be the hayloft. Hah, so that’s why the sheep always rest in this space!

For whatever reason the lower ceiling there creates an air draw. It can be over a 100 degrees 10 yards away and a pleasant, breezy 90 in that alcove. What was even better is that the trusses supporting the loft are exposed. The more I looked, the more possible hanging the cages from the trusses became. That, I was sure, would keep the rabbits Moosie- and puppy-proof, not to mention fox- and raccoon-proof.

So, knowing the rabbits were coming Sunday, by Saturday I had three empty rabbit cages hanging from the trusses, complete with feeders and waterers. I’d purchased some rabbit pellets but I didn’t buy hay, thinking that the rabbit pellets were enough. Jill was kind enough to bring me some alfalfa as I transition these three bunnies onto pellets. She also came armed with good ideas, among which included my next project–building artificial rabbit nests. That’s because once the does are pregnant, they need a facsimile of a burrow in which to kindle.

Yes, when mama bunnies have babies they are said to kindle. Is that not the perfect word for my life, as I make my living selling books for the Kindle? Did Amazon know this meaning of the word they used as a name for their digital reader? And if they did, I’d really like to meet the guy who suggested it as he’s got a really quirky sense of humor.

Jill suggested making a nest box that hangs beneath the rabbit cage, almost like a real burrow. She also warned me not to expect much from these young does with their first litter. Kind of like making pancakes, that first one is never quite right.

I was okay with that. I knew I’d be happy if I 1) managed to arrange it so the girls pregnant–exactly how do you know if a rabbit is in heat?–and 2) that the new moms come safely through kindling. If and when that happened, I’d have a month to build a rabbit tractor, so I can keep these new babies out on pasture until dog food day comes.

By Monday morning, I realized I’d been betting on the come. I didn’t make it through a full twenty-four hours without one full blown catastrophe in my foray into raising “mini-livestock.”

The first threat wasn’t unexpected. As we carried the three rabbits from the house down to their new homes in the back barn, Moosie walked right next to the cage, his nose going a mile a minute. He LOVES rabbits. They run, they’re soft and furry, and they taste good. Once we reached the alcove, Moosie sat and watched as we put each rabbit into its cage. Jill watched rabbits for a moment then reported that– despite the fact that their most serious predator was drooling as he watched them– they were quickly calming down, which was a very good sign. We chatted for a bit, then we all went on our way and Moosie came with me to the house. I thought it wise to keep him locked away from the new bunnies.

The next time I went down to check on them, I took the puppies and Bear (and Moosie, who would not be left behind). The puppies had seen the cages go in but had paid no attention. I was very curious and a little worried about how they might react.

As it turned out Radha was completely freaked out by the alien beings now occupying what had been empty cages yesterday. She stood about ten feet from the alcove and barked. When a rabbit would so much as shift, she’d race backward in an amazing display of complete cowardice, then inch forward again to bark. Quiet Kali stood behind Radha, watching as Moosie did his best to stand on his hind legs and reach those cages. Then, gathering her courage, she slunk closer, put her nose up toward the rabbits, only to retreat rapidly until she was once again behind Radha.

Bear discovered that the bottoms of the rabbit cages are just above the top of his head. He moved from cage to cage and sniffed each rabbit, then walked away. For some reason, watching Bear greet them changed everything with the pups. The next thing I knew they trying every which way to meet these weird creatures. That made the sheep curious and they came into alcove and crowded beneath the cages. Once they lost interest, the chickens did a meet-and-greet. Chicken after chicken flew up, perching next to the closest rabbit, staring at her through the chain link that separates their coop from her cage.

Of all the animals that stuck their noses in toward the rabbits, I think the chickens worried them the most.

The last time I looked at them Sunday night, they were quiet and calm. This morning I hurried down to check and my heart fell. While both girls were alert and watching me, the buck had died. I suspect he was done in by all the travel and changes. As awful as that is, I’m sort of grateful. This will give me a few more weeks to practice keeping rabbits before I have to get serious about breeding them.  I’ve already discovered that the girls have very different personalities. One is quiet and a little shy while the other thinks it’s hilarious to spill her water.

Yeah, they’ll fit right in here.

Dog Food

These days I make a lot of dog food. I guess that’s what happens when you have four dogs and are committed to feeding them unprocessed raw food, otherwise known as the BARF (bones and raw food) diet.

Why would I go to all the trouble of such an inconvenience when there are hundreds of types of dog food on the market? Because I can’t bear to feed my animals what I won’t eat myself. The things I won’t eat I avoid because I was born with a genetic auto-immune disorder. Genetics, the gift that keeps on giving. My father gave it to me and I passed it on to my son.

Although I started dealing with the pain caused by this disease– ankylosing spondylitis– at around 13, without realizing what it was, I wasn’t officially diagnosed until I was in my early 30s. The doctor who diagnosed me was very excited. He’d never seen it in a woman. I, on the other hand, told him firmly, “I won’t have this disease!” and walked out of his office.

Denial isn’t always a river in Egypt. Needless to say, deciding I wouldn’t have the disease didn’t actually stop its progression.  Some ten years later things my immune system had completely crashed. Since Western medicine doesn’t do immune system rebuilds, I left the world of pharmaceuticals behind and headed into alternative medicine. That included changing my diet to avoid the toxins and lack of nutrition in the SAD (Standard American Diet) while I instead rebuilt my depleted gut microbiome.

It was one of those changes no one ever really wants to make, but turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to you. At forty I could barely walk. At fifty I did a handstand in the middle of the room (thank you Yoga!) on my birthday. And the longer I maintain my clean diet, the stronger I get.

So when it came to my dogs, dogs that I expected to be my partners on the farm, I started reading the ingredients on commercial dog foods and researched the processes used to make them. I just couldn’t feed my partners what I wouldn’t eat.

That’s when I came across the BARF diet. I was thrilled to discover I wasn’t the only one who wanted to feed raw food and lots of bones to an animal that evolved to eat raw food and lots of bones. All I can say is that neither Moosie nor Bear have ever needed to have their teeth cleaned, and feeding them grass-fed or non-GMO meats have kept them from ever being ill. For a long time I worried that I wasn’t giving them enough vegetables, but they get lots of organ meat, raw milk yogurt, and fresh eggs. They also snack on gross things like the intestines of the animals they kill and the chickens I slaughter, and occasionally, cow and sheep manure.

But when the puppies arrived, I wanted to start them off right, so I looked up recipes for dog food, When I found something that I liked, I added my own twists, most especially adding the Celtic Sea Salt so they get their trace minerals.

So here’s what the girls eat, each of them getting a pound of this food a day, along with another 12 ounces of meat, organ meats, or bones, plus 1/2 a cup of raw milk yogurt and 2 eggs. That’s 2 eggs if they don’t find more during the course of the day.

2 pounds of grass-fed ground beef
10 oz frozen green beans, ground  OR 10 oz of cooked squash, mashed
6 large carrots, ground or 2 apples, ground
2 cans of sardines in water, mashed
2 tsp Celtic Sea Salt

Mix it with your hands, measure out their portions, top with yogurt and eggs. Then watch your puppies do the happy dance when you go to feed them.

 

A Paralyzed Chicken

Well this has certainly been a bad year for my chickens. First the bald eagle harvested a few. Then Radha has taken (she got another one today while I wasn’t looking) a few more. But the other evening I ran into the strangest thing I’ve ever seen since I started keeping chickens.

She was one of the Barred (black and white) chickens. I first noticed her mid-morning. She was sitting on the floor of the coop panting a little. That’s was reasonable enough, considering it was pushing a hundred degrees. But I always check these days, so I picked her up.

In previous years I would have expected even an ailing or injured chicken to try and escape me when I head for them. But that’s not the way these new girls of mine operate. Like all of these Barreds, she let me pick her up, then tucked her head into my elbow.

Uh-oh. That’s a very bad sign. I lifted wings and ruffled her feathers, looking for blood or punctures. There weren’t any. She was a little thin, but not so much that she seemed sickly. These Barreds seem to stay on the more slender side while their cousins, the Partridge Rocks, prefer to carry a little more weight. Then I put my hand on her neck and looked for her crop.

In case you don’t know, a crop is a chicken’s pre-stomach. It’s a balloon-like sac that the chicken can absolutely stuff with food and tiny stones. “Food” for a chicken includes everything from grass, seeds, bugs, mice, lizards, another hen’s eggs, the meat of dead creatures of all sorts and kinds, chicken food, and, always, those tiny stones. The crop then spends the rest of the day slowly sending its contents down to her gizzard, where it’s ground into mush by the gizzard using those tiny stones.

An interesting aside: the stones cause the surface of gizzard to become leathery. That layer of leather has to be removed before a gizzard is edible. I know this, because I’ve been removing that leather for eight years now.

By mid-morning a chicken’s crop should be pretty full. From the moment the coop door opens at dawn, my birds are eating. In this poor girl’s case, as far as I could tell there was nothing in her crop. That had me wondering if she’d been like this the night before and I’d missed her, or if she simply hadn’t left the coop when I opened it in the morning. Just in case, I then felt her abdomen, this time looking for an undelivered egg. Becoming egg-bound is certain to make a healthy hen sickly. She’ll usually die if she can’t move that egg out of her body. Then again, none of my Brahmas died from being egg-bound. They simply stopped producing eggs and kept on consuming expensive organic chicken food.

Another interesting aside (garnered after eight years of slaughtering chickens): Before the eggs become shelled, the yolks cluster in her ovary. So a laying hen can have one fully shelled egg in process and a bunch of yolks in all different sizes from tiny circles to full-sized yellow yolks, waiting in the wings as it were.

I couldn’t feel an egg, so not egg-bound. Not certain what to do with her, I set her back down in a quiet corner of the coop and promised her I’d be back. I returned at 4:00 pm, feeding time. She was where I’d left her, looking weak but not really worse after those few hours. I walked away to hunt for eggs in another portion of the coop, then came back. In that short time, she’d started seizing. I watched as her head shook uncontrollably, and her wings and feet jerked. Then she went completely rigid, her legs stretched straight out and wings clamped close to her body. All except her head, which flopped a little to the side, her eyelids tightly closed.

I snatched her up, certain that I’d just watched her die. Weirdly, she felt like she was already in rigor. I couldn’t bend her legs or move her wings. This is simply not possible. A chicken (and everything else I presume) doesn’t go into rigor mortis instantly. Instead, the body relaxes once the death throes have ended. In a chicken, this means the feathers all drop close to her body if held by the head and fall away from the body if held by the feet.

On this bird even her feathers felt stiff. Not certain what else to look for, I pried open one eyelid. Much to my astonishment, although her pupil was dilated, she was definitely not dead. In fact, I’m pretty sure she was looking at me. Given her strange state, I felt the kindest thing to do was put her out of her misery. But I kept wondering what in the world had happened to her. A stroke? Maybe. Chickens can have strokes, and heart attacks, but that wouldn’t explain the weird rigidity.

Then I remembered the two chicks I lost out of my new batch of meat birds. They both died within the twenty-four hours of arrival, and both of them had a hole eaten out of the side of their beaks. I finally decided these two bold chicks had eaten a bug that had bitten back, and then died from whatever venom or poison was in the bug.

And that brought me to the two most venomous bugs on the property, centipedes and tarantula wasps or hawks, as they’re often called. I’ve seen a hen take on a centipede and she handled it like a pro, picking it up by the head and throwing it over and over until it was stunned enough that she could split its head open with her beak. But that wasp would be a different deal altogether.

Those big, beautiful girls –dark blue with transparent orange wings– deliver a terrible sting, one capable of paralyzing a tarantula (into which they lay their eggs ala Alien) and making a grown man cry. I’ve either seen a dozen of those wasps this year, or maybe the same wasp a dozen times. Either way, the wasp is big enough to look like a moth or a dragonfly to a chicken.

I offered the dead bird to the coyotes, just in case whatever killed her was in her flesh. But oh my goodness, that’s yet another chicken gone! If only I’d known that I was going to lose another one. You see, I stopped at Tractor supply the other day because they’d been advertising ducklings and I decided I needed more ducks.

My present eight ducks, six Pekin (white) ducks and two Rouens (not white), are definitely laying eggs. Although I never see them, not since the puppies discovered that duck eggs are tasty. But if I get to fencing the pups out of the pond, there’s a chance that those duck hens might nest. The emergency backup drake stepped into his predecessor’s webbed feet after that one’s untimely death, and has been making the rounds of all the hens, including the Rouens. And since the puppies don’t bother the ducks (much), I’m thinking I might have ducklings someday.

It was my lucky day at Tractor Supply. They had their baby birds on sale for 50% off so I grabbed all seven of their remaining ducklings. They’re loving their new life in the brooder coop, paddling away in a shallow pan filled with pond water and that grass that my first set of ducks loved and still eat, now that they live in the pond. It must be really tasty grass, because these little guys haven’t touched their processed food yet.

But after I put the chicken out beyond the fence, I found myself wishing I’d known this was going to happen. If I had, I would have bought out all Tractor Supply’s chicks as well. At the rate my girls are expiring, I may have to fight the puppies for the duck eggs before much longer.

 

 

Miracle Moosie

As usual you need to catch up before I can move forward. I swear, it’s no longer life in the slow lane out here on the farm. Nowadays, the days whip by so fast my head spins.

Mr. Headbutts– because he’s no longer the only headbutt buddy, he’s become “Mister Headbutts”, signifying that’s he’s the premier headbutt buddy –has been recruiting buddies. Mr. H has become so fond of his pats and rubs that he shows up on command. That caught the attention of the other lambs who have started gathering close around him to watch as he gets his ears, head and chin scratched.  As you can see from this picture my ewes also like the attention and are beginning to feel slighted, thinking I’ve turned Mr. H, the lamb I’m petting, into an official pet.

As of today Tiny’s albino ram lamb now also “presents head” as a request for ear rubs, which he loves. Rosie’s little girl is very interested but too shy to step forward. Tiny’s second largest lamb is beginning to get in line. So, yes the day will come when I’m being pummeled from all sides by lambs that I’ve taught to head butt. I know I’m an idiot but they are so gosh-dang cute!

As for Mr. Headbutts, he’s become good friends with the puppies. Why? Because they love licking his ears and he loves that they lick his ears. The other day when I brought Kali and Radha their breakfast, he was standing with them at the gate. The girls get very exuberant about their food, leaping, bouncing, spinning and generally bounding. I’m working on “down.” Mr. H watched their antics in fascination, looking from puppy to puppy, then then lowered his head and bounced three times.  I nearly dropped the dog food I laughed so hard.

Now onto my miracle dog, who is once again moving like a normal Moosie after five laser treatments. I’m hoping we get at least a few painless months for him.

The other day I was discussing chicken-killing Radha with a contractor whose been doing a lot of work for us. He shook his head and said what most everyone does when I mention that one of my dogs has killed a chicken. “Once they taste blood, you can never stop them. They’ll just keep killing chickens.”

“No sir,” I replied, then pointed at Moosie. “It took me over 25 chickens and a whole bunch of turkeys, but he doesn’t kill my birds any more. Instead, he kills coons, skunks, gophers, otters, beaver, and other rodents. Radha’s only taken ten chickens so far. I’ve got a few more birds before I give up on her. If she doesn’t kill the ducks, then she can learn not to kill the chickens.”

Later that day I decided I couldn’t blame Radha for all ten deaths. I’ve found carcasses all over the property since the beginning of the chicken-killing spree. The chickens are, or were, free-rangers and went wherever they wanted, so I assumed the pups had killed them where they found them. Yesterday, I caught that young bald eagle hanging out on the bare sycamore branch near the coop. Not far from there along the creek was a chicken carcass. So Radha has killed SOME number of chickens, but that eagle as killed some as well. Perhaps some of those beautifully gutted carcasses had been picked clean by a hungry eagle and left for Radha to find.

The very next evening that new guy of mine called me out to the porch. “Come quick. Moosie’s killed a chicken,” he yelled.

I dashed out to the porch and looked down toward the front pasture in dismay. There’s Moosie, who had been playing (if digging for gophers alongside them can be called playing) with the puppies, carrying one of the black-and-white Barred Rocks by the butt, her feet straight up in the air.

“Oh, Moosie!” I cried as he dropped that bird in front of the pasture gate.

Down I went. As I entered the pasture, Moosie was sitting about five feet from the bird he’d dropped. He looked completely calm and cool, which is very unusual for him when he’s in killing mode. Radha and Kali are pacing about five yards from him and the chicken, not coming a step closer. That was really strange. They’re eating machines. If Moosie didn’t want that bird, why weren’t they battling each other to rip it to shreds?

Already sighing over the thought of having to skin yet another of my laying hens, I went to grab the dead bird. Much to my astonishment, she’s no longer laying on her back, feet up, the way Moosie dropped her. Instead, she’s sitting upright in the grass. I lean down to pick her up. Her eyes are bright, if unusually wide. She panting, her beak open and her tongue out. Well damn. Now I’m going to have to kill the injured bird before I skin her.

I picked her up, lifted her wings looking for blood and feeling her belly for puncture wounds. There’s plenty of spit on her feathers, but no punctures and no blood. She tucked her head under my arm. It’s true, chickens, like ostriches, will hide their heads when they’re frightened or shocked, and being carried upside down across three pastures by a killer dog can be pretty shocking.

I looked at the puppies. They’re glancing between me holding the bird and Moosie. Neither one of them has made any attempt to approach me. That’s when I looked at Moosie.

I could see it in his eyes. “Hey, if I’m not allowed to kill these birds then these stupid little dogs can’t do it either. I’ve told them to lay off, now take care of your damn birds already.”

Having said his piece, he smiled at me and turned, tail wagging, ready to leave the bird, the puppies and the pasture.

Yes, a dog who has killed chickens can be trained not to kill them. For the record, if Radha becomes half the dog Moosie is, she’ll be a spectacular livestock guardian.

 

 

My Headbutt Buddy

Once again, I’m going to offer a couple of updates before I start talking ram lambs. That’s because in my last post I mentioned that Moosie was hurting again. Well, after I posted that his hurt clearly became unbearable, and he turned back into a three-legged dog. So we went to the vet for another round of laser therapy. This time I just had to take a picture of him in his protective goggles. These goggles were made for Moosie, with his big bulbous freckled nose and floppy ears. I swear, he’s almost as cute as Snoopy! So, for your viewing enjoyment, here is my World War I ace pilot being prepped for take-off.

Many thanks to Dr. Cinda and Chris at Golden Bone Wellness Center for making such a difference. Two more treatments and he’s clearly feeling himself again.  He’s even decided it’s okay to play with the puppies and tried to steal one of my new meat chicks.

There’s been some change on the chicken-killing front but no solution. After losing another four chickens to Radha, I’ve locked what remains of my flock into the back barn. It’s roomy, airy, and cool, but there’s no grass. Instead, I’ve been bringing them bucketfuls of weeds and great, huge armloads of comfrey, which they seem to enjoy. One managed to find a small escape hatch in my fencing. Fortunately for me she was one of the friendly Barred Rocks and (stupidly) squatted for me when I started chasing her. I snatched her up before Radha caught her. It actually became a pretty good teaching moment, especially since Moosie was there as well and I was giving him the same commands Radha was getting. Moosie probably thinks it’s unfair that this new puppy is allowed to kill and eat chickens when he’s not. After that, I found the (itty bitty–how in the world did she get through that?) hole the chicken used to escape and plugged it.

I have to say it’s been very nice not to have to worry about what’s dying while I’m up in the house writing. I swear, that puppy can kill and eviscerate a chicken faster than I will ever be able to do. With no chicken distraction, I’ve been able to concentrate on Radha’s behavior around the lambs. All the ewes are clear about which dog is trouble. Not one of them reacts to Kali’s presence. All of them welcome both Moosie and Bear. And all of them will charge Radha even before she does anything, which she takes are a double dog dare. She dances away with a great big grin on her face, spins and races back at all the sheep, scattering them.

She now wears her electric collar full time and we sit together in the flock every night for an hour. I’m a little worried this will backfire on me. That’s because all the lambs have become very curious about the two of us. Every one has come to put their noses against Radha’s while my finger sits on the zap button. I can see her struggle to control her urge to either treat them like another  puppy or like a meal. I don’t think she knows which way that will actually play out, and frankly there isn’t much difference. Listening to Radha growl in play is pretty darn scary. I expect her to sound like Cujo when something really dangerous appears.

The friendliest of the lambs has proved to be Mari’s little ram lamb, now officially known as the “Headbutt Buddy.” First, I cannot believe those lambs are now more than a month old! Where did July go? After all the death and pain that accompanied their births, I’m thrilled that all of them are doing so well. Tiny, being the mom she is, is already beginning to wean her three boys. This may be because they’re all big enough now that when they hit her udder to prompt the flow of milk it literally lifts her back feet off the ground.

Rosie, as I’ve mentioned before, is that teen mom everyone worries about. Time and again, I’ve seen her off by herself, grazing away while her little girl goes to hang with her uncles and her grandmother. All of a sudden Rosie’s head will snap up and turn frantically from side to side as she looks for her only child, the one she didn’t notice was missing for more than an hour. She’ll bleat out a call and, from a distance, I’ll hear her little girl respond. And that’s all she’ll do, call back to her mom. No way is that neglected child expending any energy to look for her disappearing mother. Mama has to come to her.

As for Milly, after the trauma of giving birth to her “Blackleg”– this isn’t a name, just what I call him because the black color from his Dorper head spreads down his front left leg to his hoof as if he were wearing one black stocking– has turned into a wonderful mother. Like Mari, who is Milly’s mother, Milly keeps her child close and safe. Although he was the last born, he’s now second biggest, next to Tiny’s albino boy.

My Headbutt Buddy

Mari has proved to be the best mom of the flock. She keeps herself and her babies to the side, so her lambs mingle less with the others. That’s why it surprised me when the Headbutt Buddy came up to me on his own. Maybe it’s that Mari’s close attention gave him more confidence than the others.

Okay, that’s anthropomorphizing. Mari is a ewe. Surely, ewes couldn’t give a fig about good self-esteem. They’re much more into eating windfall apples, especially when those apples are halfway to hard cider. But that’s another story. Drunken sheep are pretty funny.

At any rate, Mr. HB is the smallest of the ram lambs and the friendliest, by whatever means that occurred. And he loves it when I put out my fist. He leans his forehead against it and pushes with all his might, then lets me scratch his head, ears and neck. So the other day while I was sitting with the leashed Radha at my side, both of us watching the flock, Mr. HB comes right up to me. He lowered his head in invitation. I put out my fist and he pressed his head to it. Radha watched in fascination, then got up, her full attention on him. He turned toward her, meeting her nose-to-nose, then let Radha examine his ears, his legs, his tail. Then much to my horror, she sort of sunk her teeth juts a little way into his wool, as if testing him to see if he tasted as good as a chicken. A quick zap put an end to that. Why is it that Kali gets this and she doesn’t?

But that didn’t put Mr. HB off me. Now, every time I come down to the flock, he’s right in front of me, offering his head. This is catching the attention of the other ram lambs. Hoo-boy. I’m an idiot to encourage but I tell myself it won’t be for long. And right now they’re all so stinking cute. Besides, I have the alleyways and wonderful new fences. I can keep them safely locked up until the moment arrives.

What is it they say about the illusion of control? What if I end up with five Cincos on my hands? Then again, Cinco was very delicious, very delicious indeed.