Denise Domning's Blog, page 6

House Chicken

First an update on my last two stories. We had a gully-whomper of a rainstorm the other day and the turkey hen did not choose wisely. Rather than hunker down under the porch, which would have kept her and her babies dry, she sat in the Elderberry patch. All three of her chicks drowned when a tidal wave flowed from the road, over my wall, to innundate her. She’s now back to mothering the two older, murdering poults.

As for Radha and the chicken problem…rut-roh, Radha. I have four fewer chickens than I did last week. I’ve also learned that Kali is a wuss when it comes to the training collars. She yelps like she’s been stabbed when it’s set to a gentle buzz. However, a much stronger buzz will evoke no sound at all from Radha. Instead, she shakes her head and keeps doing whatever it was she was doing, which is usually chasing chickens or lambs. As nice as that technology is, I think my most successful correction technique thus far has been to tie the still-warm chicken she had just killed and gutted–very effectively, I might add– to her collar then isolate her in one of the pasture alleyways for a little more than an hour. She actually whined to get out, which is the first time I’d heard that from her.

Then this morning, Moosie weighed in on the situation. He’s once again hurting but still able to walk and he wanted to join me and the girls as we went up to the wild hillside. They LOVE it up there. There are so many interesting smells and you can wrestle your sister over the edge of the hill and watch as she tumbles out of control toward the rocks below. When I called them all back down to the far pasture, Radha must have decided she wanted to play. I’m guessing she threw herself at Moosie the way she does Bear. I heard what was more a scream than a yelp. Two seconds later she was cowering at my ankles. Moosie followed casually behind her, stopped to look at her, then proceeded on home. I checked her for blood or a bite. There was nothing. I think he just told her that she’d never be the dominant one on this property and that if she didn’t start behaving, bad things would happen. She’s been very quiet since then. Between what I’m doing and Moosie’s intervention, I have real hope. If she can leave the ducks unharmed, she can do the same for chickens and lambs. If only they weren’t so much fun to chase!

Now, onto the unexpected arrival of my new house chicken. Not that I wanted a house chicken, at least not the way I wanted a house tom turkey, but it appears I don’t have a choice about this.

Eating Elderberries

I don’t know what’s up with this batch of Barred Rocks, but they are the friendliest chickens I’ve ever owned. Just the Barreds, not the Partridge Rocks, their rusty-brown breed cousins, who are very standoffish.

These Barreds will come running up to me even while I’m walking the puppies then follow as if they were four-legged sheep not two-legged chickens. Those that make their way up to the front pasture while the puppies are eating insist on dashing around pups, trying to steal morsels of food. This behavior, more than any other, is probably how so many have ended up in Radha’s mouth. I mean, if you’re going run right up to your major predator and offer yourself up for slaughter, well then, you better be ready to die.

But then one of these gray-and-white birds found her way up to the house. Oh my goodness, but she’s bold as brass! We had the basement door open and she wandered right in, talking to herself, “yurp, tick, cluck, raspy groan” as she looked around. I think this means, “Well, this place is different and very messy. I think I like it here.”

After being chased out, she went to eat Elderberries, then discovered the food bowl I keep up here for the turkeys. That was it. She decided to move in. And indeed, she came back the next day. We had an electrician in to fix something. When he took his lunch break on the wall below the porch, she shoved her head between his arm and his body to steal a bit of his sandwich. Then the third day she returned, she came up onto the porch while we were eating breakfast. Let me just say that the cats don’t frighten her in the slightest. She examined the whole length and breadth of the porch, decided cat food was pretty tasty, checked the porch flooring for bugs, then turned toward the open door leading to the house.

My house chicken with her new flock

“If I don’t let Tom in, you’re not coming in either,” I told her. She tilted her head as she considered me, then replied with a long yurp, turned around and went back down the stairs.

Today, it’s clear that she’s decided to become a turkey, because she’s joined their tiny flock. Just a little while ago, they were all resting outside the downstairs bedroom, the older poults on the wall, their mother hunkered into a pile a leaves, Tom nearby, and a little gray Barred Rock smiling to herself as she sat with them, basking in the sun.

Why, oh why, can’t I have normal animals?

Dog Days and Dies Mali

Here on the farm, I am officially suffering the Dog Days of summer.  Not because we haven’t had one worthwhile Monsoon storm, not one decent roll of thunder or cooling spate of rain. And not just because we’re in the 30 to 60-odd day stretch that has been known as the Dog Days almost since humans have been able to write. Indulge me for a minute before I get to this week’s story.

When I wrote the title for this post, I realized I didn’t actually know how mid-July through mid-September got to be known as the Dog Days. Until a few minutes ago all I knew was the Medieval designation Dies Mali, Latin for “bad days,” which was used for this period of the year.  I’ve used that Latin phrase in my novels more than once because in the Middle Ages it was the go-to excuse for anything that went wrong during late summer. It’s August and the milk soured (because you didn’t put it back in the ice house)? Dies Mali.  It’s late July and you didn’t make it to mass (because you overslept)? Dies Mali. The tablecloth didn’t come out as white as your mistress wanted (because you didn’t take the time to scrub out the stains)? Dies Mali.

Enough of that. Here’s our history lesson for the day.

It’s the star Sirius that gives the Dog Days their name. Also known as Canis Major, or Big Dog, Sirius and his buddy dog, Canis Minor (Little Dog) follow Orion the Hunter through the sky. It just so happens that Sirius rises around July 19th, about the same time that 1) the Nile floods, bringing new fertility, and 2) the onset of a couple months of sweltering weather in the Northern Hemisphere in general and Western Europe in particular.

The Greeks were among the first to make note of their complaints about this stretch of the year, most likely because it messed with their wine making. The pundits of the time highly recommended that vintners get their wines in casks before Sirius rose. As for the weather, they warned that there would either be sudden thunderstorms (not good for grain farmers) or scorching drought. Sort of like it’s been here here in Northern Arizona this year.

One Greek poet suggests the Dog Days have an effect on plants, animals, men and women:

…in the season of wearisome heat, then goats are plumpest and wine sweetest; women are most wanton, but men are feeblest, because Sirius parches head and knees and the skin is dry through heat.

Huh. That explains a lot. It’s definitely Dies Mali if the women are wanton but the men are at their feeblest.

To finish up this lesson, I’ll include a snippet from Homer’s Iliad, in which the Dog Days are used as a metaphor to describe the approach of Achilles to Troy:

Priam saw him first, with his old man’s eyes,

A single point of light on Troy’s dusty plain.

Sirius rises late in the dark, liquid sky

On summer nights, star of stars,

Orion’s Dog they call it, brightest

Of all, but an evil portent, bringing heat

And fevers to suffering humanity.

Achilles’ bronze gleamed like this as he ran.

Now as to my particular Dog Days and Dies Mali or rather Diem Malum (bad day) story. Today, the puppies killed a chicken. They not only killed it, they consumed it, eating out its innards but leaving the still-feathered “good” meat. Maybe they didn’t care for the taste of the feathers. She was still warm when I found her, but there wasn’t a drop of blood left to her, just a dry, bony carcass. Suffice it to say both pups are now wearing their training collars.

These are the same collars–or collar, as I only used one for Moosie– that I bought to keep Moosie from killing chickens. By the time I got that collar on him, he’d done in nearly forty chickens and God only knows how many turkeys. That collar saved him and me, since I don’t know what I’d do without Midwife Moosie in my life. I’m not certain I ever broke him of the turkey killing habit. Instead, we came to detente. I put away the turkeys before dark and he doesn’t kill them during the day. Out after dark, unless they’re sitting on eggs, and he kills them.

Radha escaping Dog Day heat

I’m committed to getting the same result with the girls, but doing it this time after losing no more than three birds. (I’m giving myself some leeway on this goal.) Let me say this about those puppies, now that they’re almost as big as Moosie. I watched them as they moved along the fence line today. They are truly magnificent animals, sleek, muscular, and crazy fast. And definitely lethal, or so they proved this morning. Once I get them in line and they settle into their purpose here, I pity the predator–any predator–that crosses my fence.

As for my own Diem Malum, the turkey eggs began to hatch today. By noon I had five new hatchlings. By 1 PM, two of the hatchlings had been pecked to death.

When I found the first dead baby, I blamed the two chickens who happened to hanging out with Tom today. These two keep flying over the new fence to come up to the house. That’s because they found the food I keep here for Tom and the sitting girls. They were natural suspects in this murder because chickens are by their natures killers, little Tyrannosaurs. They’ll kill, and eat, another hen’s babies without batting an eyelash, or a feather. If you see an egg carton marked “Vegetarian Fed,” know that’s an unnatural diet for a chicken.

So I chased those two girls back down to the pastures and thought the matter resolved. Instead, I came back an hour later to see how many were now in the nest and found another murdered baby. Being a mystery writer that left me to deduce that the only possible culprits were the two half-grown turkey poults left from this hen’s last set of hatchlings. It took me an hour but I got the two of them locked into the brooder coop next to the barn.

My goodness, how I love that brooder coop! I should have built it eight years ago. I would have saved myself so much hassle and work. The only reason the coop was available at the moment is because my new meat birds don’t arrive until next week and I slaughtered all thirty of my grown meat birds on Saturday. Don’t they look pretty, all bagged up and purple-stained!

As I always do when slaughtering birds, I gave the chickens their last meal at noon before D-Day. That makes it much less likely that there will food in their crops or intestines, although there’s always something in their gizzards. To keep them from grazing Saturday morning, thus adding anything to their tummies, I didn’t open the brooder coop…

…Into which I had dumped two wheelbarrow-loads of dried mulberries last month. These were berries I’d swept up from my barn driveway. I didn’t think about it because those birds hadn’t once touched the dried, crumbly purple bits. But these chickens were unstoppable eating machines, ravenous, ever-empty walking stomachs. Apparently that last twenty hours without food left them hungry enough to that they ate the dried mulberries, which then reconstituted in their digestive tracks and I released during the slaughtering process. Purple streaked their flesh, my hands, my clothes…everything. Diem Malum.

 

New Fences

I know, I know. I mentioned I was installing new fences last week, but with the chaos of that day, I didn’t really appreciate what I’d managed to make happen. Now that a week has passed, I think…I hope…no, I’m certain this was exactly what I always wanted. The fence appears to be tight enough to prevent a cow from walking through it or for a pig to tear it up. Although there’s no way to prevent the chickens from flying over–for some reason clipping their wings never works for me–they can’t get under it. Or rather, they won’t be able to get under it when I’m finished closing all the gaps they’ve showed me. But what it has done perfectly is keep my new puppies where they belong, down in the pastures with the animals they’re supposed to be guarding.

A Fenceless View

What I love most about this whole thing is that there is no longer a ridiculous 10 foot-tall chain link fence around my orchard.

When I first arrived here what had once been an orchard had a five-foot-tall chain link fence around it. That most of the trees were dead made a fence sort of redundant. Rather than remove the fence when I should have, I instead saved three apricots, two apples, three plums and a pluot. Today, the apples still look pretty gnarly, but that may be because they’re simply at the end of their lives, and I’ve added way too many apricots plus a jujube. This winter I want to add some hazelnuts, and maybe more cherries. Definitely cherries!

It was that fence that resulted in me putting my first chicken coops in the orchard. This was in my pre-dog period, when I was fool enough to believe a fence could keep chickens safe from predators. Needless to say neither the coyotes nor the bobcat were deterred by a five foot leap. So even more foolishly I added another five feet to the fence. In my naivete (and general ignorance of predatory behavior), I was convinced this would do the trick.

Yeah, right. So not only did I create an eyesore with a ridiculously tall fence, I spent a small fortune to do it, and it didn’t even slow down the hunting cats. Or the raccoons, nasty, bird-killing critters that they are. Expensive lesson learned and long since regretted.

Last week, while I was shuttling Moosie to the vet, that fence finally came down, at least on the front three sides of the orchard. This has created a new open, airy space from the back of the orchard to the front barn. Give me another year or two and that space will be planted the way I originally wanted–with boxed, raised rows set with PVC hoops for freeze cloth or floating row cover, or bird netting to keep out the occasional marauding chicken.

The back of the orchard fence remains in place, shortened to its original five feet. Extending from either end of the chain link are lines of beautiful, tight, four-foot-high horse fencing all the way to the turkey barn. There are gates, salvaged from my many other fencing endeavors, here and there so I can come and go with ease. It’s my job to cover each of the gates with handy panels, my favorite building material, although I’m not using one u-bolt or a bit of baling twine to do this job. Instead, I bought myself a 24″ bolt cutter so I can custom-size a panel to fit each gate. I’ve learned that I can bend the metal ends of the panel so it hangs on the top pipe of a gate. Once it’s in place, it’s easy to wire it to the sides so it can’t be shifted or lifted. If I’m careful with my measuring, not even the most slender of my chickens can get through it.

But wait, there’s more! I also had lines of fencing installed to separate the front three pastures. For the first time ever, I can put the sheep in one pasture and keep them there until they’ve grazed the area to my satisfaction. Even more importantly, I can make Bear stay with the sheep he’s supposed to guard. And, once I’ve finished the last gates, I’ll be able to put the puppies in with him wherever he is so they can learn their new jobs.

Why not include Moosie with the other dogs? Because there’s not a fence in the world that can keep Moosie where he doesn’t want to be. Even gimpy, he’ll get over it or dig under it, or swim around a barrier.  He’s already taught the pups to dig. I don’t want him teaching them any more tricks they don’t need to know since they’ve already proved themselves pretty tricky when it comes to escaping containment. I am happy to report that there hasn’t been a puppy on the porch since I finished lining the gates in the perimeter fence. What a blessing that is! I no longer have to worry that they might escape to the road before I know they’re free.

After all, the less time I spend chasing them down to put them back where they belong, the more time I have to work with them. And work it is. Although I have no question they’ll become really good livestock guardians, read the description of their breed, and you’ll understand my exhaustion:

Profusely muscled but nimble afoot, Anatolians are more than a match for the predators and harsh terrain of their homeland. They are smart, devoted, responsive, and adaptable. Anatolian owners must be strong leaders, willing and able to handle a dog as dominating and demanding as she is calm and loving.

Dog training with Rosie

See that part about “dominating and demanding?” I’m really having to step up my game on this, or rather remember what I did to make Moosie into the dog he became. So far, we’ve determined who’s alpha in this pack. If you had any doubt, it’s me, but only because I know better than to let up on them for one instant.  But should I need to take a break, I’ll just fence them into a pasture with Rosie and her little girl.

Who knew the friendliest of my ewes could be such a terror? Poor Radha was just minding her own business today when Rosie leapt on top of her, then turned and sent that pup tumbling.  Oh yeah. It’s Rosie who will be my partner on this next adventure. Good sheepie girl!

What a day!

It’s 7 PM and I’m just now getting to the computer. My head is aching and my leg is throbbing. Once again, one of those big red ants climbed up the inside of my pants leg and decided it wasn’t where it wanted to be, so it bit me at my knee. If not for that, this might have been a dramatic post about helping Milly deliver her baby (I was right, a boy, too big, one leg caught behind him), or perhaps a joyous post about removing the eyesore fence from around my orchard, something I’ve wanted to do for years. Instead, the ant venom is fuzzing up my brain. So, I thought I’d give you a one-day snapshot of the chaos that has been my life of late.

It started at 6 AM this morning when the guy coordinating the fence take-down project appeared and we discovered a miscommunication. I thought we were going to buy the fencing together, because I can’t lift a 100 foot roll of galvanized horse fencing by myself. He hadn’t understood that and instead expected it to be at the house. I need to run to Home Depot before his guys appear.

As luck would have it, it’s Monday. That’s the day Christina, my tenant and generally right-hand gal, dedicates to working for me. Since she was already up and going, we jump into the truck and hit Cottonwood. Together, we pick up 4 100 foot rolls of fencing, put them on a trolley, buy them, then toss them into the back of my pickup. Job well done!

We make it back to the farm before 7:30, and I drive down to the orchard areas so the guys could unload the rolls. Then Christina, who’s also a massage therapist, looks at Moosie again.

Poor Moosie. Last week, he once more tried to climb a tree, this time after two squirrels. Two! At the same time! In one tree! He had to have them.

Surprise, surprise, he again discovered that dogs can’t climb trees and also tore his shoulder. He was gimpy for a few days, then improved or so I thought. However, on Saturday he stopped putting weight on his front left paw. Christina worked on him, which usually resolves the situation, but he was fussy with her, not really wanting her to touch him. She tried again on Sunday. This time, he put his mouth on her. That was enough for me to decide I had to call the vet on Monday morning.

But at 7:30 as Christina ran her hand over Moosie’s sore shoulder, she discovered a scabby spot. It was a little swollen but no puss. Had he recovered from the shoulder injury only to be bitten? I went into the house to make breakfast, only to have to make 3 trips down to the pasture to answer questions and begin making a list for the next Home Depot run.

At 8 I called the vet and got an appointment for 10:30, then went back down to the pasture to check on water and food for all the critters. When you’re sweating at 8 you know it’s going to be a scorcher of a day.

By 8:30 the guys were sure they needed 200 more feet of fencing, plus 4 sets of post hinges and a saw blade. I calculate that in my head as 20 minutes to Cottonwood, 3 minutes to find the saw blade (I know where they are), 5 minutes to put 2 rolls of fencing on a trolley, then grab the post hinges as we roll toward the register. Then 5 minutes to load the truck, 20 minutes back to the farm. That give me plenty of time to reach the vet in Sedona. I mean, I’ve got 2 hours.

You can see where this is going, can’t you?

We went for the fencing first and, as luck would have it, they had 2 more rolls of exactly what I needed. Onto the trolley it went, this time with the help of a couple of guys. Nice. We roll down the fencing parts and find…only the male half of the post hinges. There are two whole boxes of the male halves. What good is that? We ask an assistant and are told they just can’t stock all those parts because the store is so small and there’s no room.

Huh. We’re now over the time limit for hinges, so we go to the saw blade aisle. I’m carrying the blade I’m supposed to replace so I know what to get. Only I can’t find that blade. What I don’t know is that this blade started out at 14″ diameter. It’s now 8″ in diameter. There is no blade like this that’s 8″. We walk to the flooring department in case there’s something there that looks right. Nope. Back in the original aisle an assistant measures the blade for us, tries to find an 8″ blade, then makes out what’s left of the label. Aha! It started out at 14 but has been ground down to 8.

Okay, we’ve lost a little time, but I’m not worried. We get to the register and I make a huge mistake. I had a coupon but it was only good for a purchase of more than $500. I forgot it on the first run, so I ask the clerk if it would be possible to combine the two purchases as they were made only an hour or so apart and apply the coupon.

Things don’t go well at the service desk. My request causes computer malfunctions and managerial requests and total frustration for the poor clerk trying to make it all work. After 15 minutes Christina takes our not quite purchased items to the truck. Another 15 minutes pass before the whole thing is straightened out and the coupon applied.

I’m now at 20 minutes to get to the farm and 20 minutes to reach the vet by 10:30. On the way to the farm, Christina and I realize that we have a serious problem. Moosie needs a leash but his collar is still on Milly. We used his collar and leash on all the ewes during their deliveries. Milly has yet to forget her awful experience and isn’t about to let us close enough to touch her ever again, much less remove that collar.

By the time we reach the gate we’ve choreographed the whole stop. Christina opens the gate, I park. She rolls the fencing out of the back of the truck while I run up to get Moosie, using Bear’s collar (that was a really dumb idea) and Moosie’s leash, and get the dog who hates to ride in the car into the truck.

After Bear’s collar falls off Moosie’s neck, Moosie gets the idea he’s going for a ride. Much to my surprise, for one blessed moment in his life Moosie actually doesn’t fight getting into the truck. Although I put him in the back, he immediately moves forward and takes his position on the front passenger seat. What he really wants is to sit in my lap but he knows I won’t let him. So he contents himself by panting and shedding. I hit the vet’s parking lot at exactly 10:30.

The vet is very worried about Moosie not putting his foot down. What we thought was a bite turns out to be nothing but a foxtail. Moosie doesn’t even notice when she plucks it out. He does turn out to have a very painful shoulder and to be old. He’s 50-ish in human years and a little overweight, plus his cholesterol is a little high. Other than that and the serious pain in his shoulder he’s in excellent health.

So now I have two old dogs with arthritis. Of course where Bear avoids moving when he hurts, Moosie doesn’t have that off switch. If there’s something going on, he needs to be in the middle of it. My challenge will be to slow him down some and keep him from climbing any more trees.

By the time we leave the vet’s office it’s almost noon. Since I’m in Sedona, I make a stop at the hardware store and find my post hinges, then race back to the farm. Actually, I coast back to the farm. It’s a steady downhill run from Sedona to Cornville. When I hit the house, I give Moosie his pain pill, then it’s time to feed the puppies, the ducks, the chickens and the chicks in the chicken tractor who eat more often than the puppies. OMG, but those Cornish Crosses are eating machines!

Just as I make it back to the house again, I’m needed in the pasture to approve changes. I go down, then come up again to check on Moosie. I’m in the house long enough to eat crackers and sardines for lunch–I had to open a can to use a fish for Moosie’s pill; he loves fish–then I hear a lamb bleating.

Down I go to my barn. Sure enough, a lamb has slipped out of my neighbors’ pasture and back onto my property. My little flock of sheep put themselves in that pasture this morning at 5:30. I was thrilled. They would be out of the way of the workers. However, the gate to that pasture is bent. (It wasn’t me that hit it, just saying.) Now, with panicked mamas and worried babies, I have no choice. They need to come home. I open the gate and off the ewes go straight for the garden.

This is the main idea of this new, completely fenced pasture area of the farm. From today on, I will be able to keep my animals where I want them. No more chickens climbing through gaps to reach the gardens. No more sheep coming up to the house to eat my roses. And Bear will stay where he needs to be–with the animals he supposed to guard, and the puppies will learn how to do what Bear does.

Moosie won’t be down with them, at least not at night. There isn’t a fence in the world that can hold him. If he can’t climb over or go through, he’ll dig out. I’ll be interested to see how this plays out.

I stay with the sheep in the garden because the gate that will keep them where they belong is just going in. The moment it’s functional, I drive my flock into their newly fenced home and chain the gate shut behind them. Then I grin like an idiot. I’ve waited four years for this moment. The eyesore orchard fence is gone and my sheep are locked in where I want them.

Well, the fence is doing its job but the gates need work. By 3:00 PM the workmen have gone and I try letting the puppies run free in the pasture. By 3:10 PM the girls have escaped the first gate. Down I go with my new bolt cutters and handy panels. By 3:30 the ant deposited her venom. By 5, with Christina’s help, I had three gates puppy-proofed. By 6:30 the girls had exploited all the gates I haven’t gotten to yet.

That’s okay. Tomorrow is another day. Hopefully it will be a calmer day.

It has to be. After all, each and every day those pups get bigger. Pretty soon they’ll be too big to shimmy through those tiny holes. But the lambs won’t be. Sigh.

A better week

Of course, it wouldn’t have taken much to improve on last week, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I love that saying. As I type the words, I’m remembering an 18th Century painting of the London Horse Fair. A red-nosed farmer is pulling back the lip of a horse, checking its teeth. In the painting they both have “horse” teeth.

Not look too closely was pretty much what I tried to do this past week. I will admit to making unnecessary trips down to the back pasture to check on Tiny. I’m glad to report she appears to be doing very well. Maybe even unbelievably well. As far as I can tell, she never dropped her fourth lamb. She has produced a good amount of reddish goo, and did have a down day where I worried. Then her eyes brightened, her ears warmed and her nose cooled. And she never once stopped feeding her three little guys.

Mari’s son

Mari has weathered this round of births the best of all, thus far. That’s saying a lot for the little ewe that I was advised to “put down” (that always sounds so much easier than the actual doing of it) because her father had broken a bone in her back leg. She barely limps these days, although she is slower than all the others when she runs. She been an amazing mom, which includes keeping her two lambs close. Despite being protective, Mari allowed her little boy to play with me the other night. I put out my fist, he leaned his forehead against it then pushed with all his might as he practiced his head butting. As I’ve said before, sheep have only two games: “Mount you” and “Head butts.”

While Mari keeps a close hold on her lambikins, neither Rosie nor Tiny can manage that. For the most part, Tiny takes the disappearance of her three sons in stride. When she calls for them her bleats sound more like “You’ll regret it if I have to chase you” than “Where are you?!” Not so Rosie. She suffers from being a first time mom. This means she gets to grazing then suddenly remembers she has a baby. Her head comes up and turns frantically side-to-side as she searches the pasture for her daughter, who has, of course, disappeared. As you can see from the picture, Rosie’s girl has formed a strong attachment to the Tiny’s albino boy. That’s them, nose to nose. This is probably because he’s her size even though he’s almost a week younger. The other two lambs in the picture are his brothers. Rosie’s girl even sleeps with Tiny’s brood to be close to her special guy.

When Rosie can’t find her little girl, she begins a panicked search. Woe to anyone, or rather any puppy who gets in her way. Poor Radha ended up jammed between a fence and a tree trunk trying to escape Rosie’s “just-in-case-you-even thought-about-hurting-my-baby-while-I-wasn’t-looking” headbutt.

As for Milly, she continues to expand, making me think she’ll have two after all. But she won’t deliver for at least two more weeks. Until then, I’ll practice breathing while I watch the ducks splash and play in the pond, continue to patch my fences each time Radha finds a new hole to slither through, and marvel at how much my new chicks can eat. Being meat birds, they’re supposed to eat a lot and grow fast, and so they do. They’re downright portly and waddle worse than ducks when they walk. But they’re a happy bunch and that makes life good, at least for now.

And sometimes, just like that horse, the gift of now is enough.

Managing Death

This post is late because the last seven days have been unbelievable. It all started on Wednesday when Rosie decided she was done being pregnant. She swiftly and easily dropped a little girl. I was thrilled, mostly because I was crouched under the barberry bush she’d chosen to protect her while she gave birth. If you don’t know barberry, it’s a plant that doesn’t bother with thorns on its branches. Why, when every leaf is outfitted with a thorn on each of its five points? It’s also the source for berberine, which is good for diabetes, high cholesterol, and high blood pressure, and, apparently, lambing ewes. Rosie kept nibbling at it while she labored.

Rosie and daughter

And labor she did, scratching at the ground, turning circles, pushing. No second lamb followed her little girl. After four hours of this, I forced her to come down off the wild hillside. She went into the back pasture and kept scratching and laboring, taking time off here and there to graze a little and nurse her little girl.

Worried and unable to help her, I left her to herself. Then at noon on the next day I heard her bellow in pain. I ran down and found her trying to deliver a big boy who was coming nose first. For those who don’t know, nose first is bad. It’s the front hooves, then nose, then forehead, and then the rest is easy. Recruiting help from a (fortunate for me) visitor, I worked to help Rosie stretch enough to bring out a dead lamb. She seemed to bounce back swiftly and by nightfall I was thrilled to see her snuggling with her new baby in one of the alleyways.

Petunia and son

The next day Petunia started labor. By now I’d gathered up all the essential things: nitrile gloves, dog leash, Dr. Bronner’s soap, a glass bottle and infant nipples (in case I ended up needing to bottle feed a lamb). Within minutes I could see that Petunia’s baby also had his feet under him instead of being outstretched. Drawing a deep breath, I did something I never even thought about doing before I moved up here. In fact, if you’d told me I’d being doing it, I’d have laughed at you. I put my hand inside Petunia, pushed her baby boy back into the birth canal and worked to bring his hooves out in front of him.

Problem #1: He was huge. Problem #2: Her pelvic opening barely had room for him.

After much twisting and turning, I got his forefeet out, and Petunia did the rest. She set to cleaning him, and all looked good until he tried to get to his feet. I don’t know if I did it while working to grab his feet or if it was a birth defect, but his ankle joints were weak. As he stood, his feet rolled under him until he was standing on his ankles. After much effort, he brought his hoofs under him.

Then Petunia dropped his placenta and got up to deliver #2. Like Rosie, she turned and scratched. For hours, she turned and scratched at the earth. Christina and I checked on her during the night. Nothing. The next morning I did that thing again, and reached inside. Her cervix was closed and there was nothing in the birth canal. And still she labored. Once she reached the twenty-four hour mark, I knew things weren’t going to end well. By Sunday night, even though she was loving on her baby, she could no longer feed her little guy and he was losing weight. It was time. I recruited my neighbor and we ended her suffering, and the little guy came into the house.

He took his bottles very well and immediately put on about a half a pound. That’s when I realized just how bad his rolled feet were. The more weight he gained, the more he walked on his ankles. He wouldn’t be able to walk by the time he reached five pounds. There was no choice. He joined his mother.

I had barely caught my breath (and put my heart back in my chest) when Tiny went into labor. This is her fourth litter, so she was an old hand at this. Nonetheless I was standing by, ready to help. One water bag appeared and broke, then two, then three. Didn’t I say she’d give me at least three?

Tiny and her three boys

Boy #1’s nose made its appearance. I cursed roundly, gloved up and reached in. He wasn’t very big, but had one hoof caught behind him and his shoulder had lodged on her pelvis. I shifted him just a little. Tiny glanced over her shoulder as if to say, “Yeah, a little more to the right.” And sure enough, a little more to the right and she sent him flying out.

She had barely started cleaning him when Boy #2’s nose and no feet made their appearance. Along with them came another intact water sack. Oh, God! Four?

As Tiny continued to clean her first one, I once again reached inside. #2 was huge! Like twice the size of the first guy. I pushed him all the way back into the birth canal so I could catch his feet. I knew #3 was right behind him, but was thankful they weren’t tangled around each other. I rotated him, caught his hooves and brought them straight out in front. Tiny gave a little push and….

An albino Dorper sheep appeared. He’s both gorgeous and strange in the same instant. Where Dorpers are black, he’s a weird taupe color with a pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes.

As Boy #1 went to find a teat, Tiny set to work cleaning #2. Almost as an afterthought, tiny Boy #3 shot out of her, almost falling unnoticed into the dirt behind her. I took over cleaning #2 and let Tiny work on #3.

Minutes later and three placentas made their appearance, bing, bing, bing. But four water bags means four babies. I sat back to wait.

Sure enough, Tiny began to turn and scratch, pushing now and then. I waited an hour. After shooting out three in less than one hour, no baby appeared. Two hours later, still no baby. Now I’m worried, first about Tiny and then about the three little boys she might leave behind if that fourth baby kills her. One more time I reached inside her. She was so relaxed I think she hardly noticed what I was doing.

There was no baby in the birth canal. I reached a little lower and found what I’m sure is a placenta. There’s no pulling on a placenta, not for any reason, so I backed out, gnashing my teeth.

I told myself that her three babies are healthy and happy, that Tiny is drinking and eating and happily bonding with all three babies instead of trying to palm one off on me. She’s calm and relaxed, except for those occasional pushes. I let it go. If there is a fourth in her, it’s dead by now. She’ll either push it out or, if there’s no infection, reabsorb it. If there’s an infection, I’ll lose her and there’s nothing I can do about that.

I didn’t sleep much last night, worrying about her. But this morning she was out grazing with her boys, nose cold, ears warm, and very pleased with herself.

Mari and lambs

Before I could grab a breath (or drink a bottle of wine) Mari went this morning. I grabbed the bucket of soapy water, gloves and went out to stand ready. Two water bags appeared, then her little girl shot out without effort. Mari was cleaning her daughter and guess what? Little boy’s nose and one hoof made their appearance. Like Tiny, Mari barely noticed what I was doing as I reached inside her. She was concentrating on cleaning her girl. His right front leg was lodged against her pelvic opening. I tried pushing him back, but Mari was having none of that. She wanted him out! Instead, I pushed him to the left and POP! There he was. Both placentas followed in good order.

I breathed a sigh of relief then caught back my breath as I looked at Milly. Nervous, shy Milly with those silly little Rasta curls on her head. I thought she’d go before Mari, because she’s been complaining for the last twenty-four hours. When she does go, I know exactly what to expect. She’ll have one, he’ll be a boy, and he’ll get lodged against her pelvic opening with one or two feet caught behind him. I’ll have to fight her to do what must be done when what must be done could be deadly to her.

But farming is about managing death, not managing life, and that is a strange, uncomfortable, and powerful truth to hold in my heart.

 

Summertime

Summertime, and the living is easy.

And humid. Okay, I know our 35 to 40 percent humidity here in Arizona passes for tolerable in most places, but everything is relative. At least we’ve had our first summer thunderstorm, although all I got was the noise and enough rain to speckle the truck. However, it was enough to cause me to declare that our Monsoon season has begun. The weatherpeople may not agree with me, but I find them equally as unreliable. Seriously? A declaration that it’s going to rain in four minutes while the sky over my head is bright blue? Piffle.

Although my gardens love the rise in moisture, with the humidity come the No-see-ums. Lordy, but they’ve been horrible on the farm this year. Walking outside in the late afternoon means taking your life in your hands, or at least the potential of serious blood loss. They don’t bother me as much as they bother that new guy in my life, who welts with every bite. We’ve started spraying him down in a mixture of coconut oil and Lemon Eucalyptus Oil.  It seems to work for the bugs but the strong scent pretty much keeps me away as well. Poor guy

Today, the temperature today is pushing back into the 90s after a couple of cool days, and everything on the farm has hunkered down in their favorite cool spot. The puppies chose one of the grassy alleys in the front pasture. My massively pregnant ewes went into the back pasture. They’ve settled down into the storage area behind the turkey barn. I think the pallets I keep there make them feel protected. For sure the area is close enough to the ditch to catch the water-cooled air and stays shaded all day.

While they’re back there, they speak to each other in grunts. I swear they’re saying “oh geez, how much longer are we going to be like this?” The answer to that is around 28 days, although Tiny looks ready to pop at any moment. I remain really worried that she’s again carrying three.

I haven’t had a chance to report that I brought in thirty Cornish cross chicks almost two weeks ago. I had to do this because I have this great new brooder coop and that home-built chicken tractor, and I just have to use them!

These chicks are the kind that end up in every supermarket’s meat case. I was surprised at how strong and healthy they were when they arrived. There was no pasty butt and they took to eating instantly. And they have never stopped. Their dedication to getting food into their bellies can be pretty comical. I’ve more than once found them packed into my homemade pvc pipe feeder. It’s a 4 foot length of 4″ pvc with the top third of the pipe cut off, and ends glued on to keep the food from spilling. All you can see of them is a line of fat little chick butts. They are supposed to be fully grown in 8 weeks, and I believe it. If I stand long enough and watch, I swear I can see them expanding..

In another week they’ll be ready to put into the chicken tractor and out on grass. Then what?

Hmm, rabbits I think. That’s right. Call me crazy or call it a wild hare of an idea, but I think I’m going to try raising rabbits. I’ve already figured out the perfect place to keep them. All I need now is to make a few cages and a structure to hold them, and a mobile coop or two.

Summertime, and the living is easy?

 

 

 

Collars and Crawly backs

Today I bought collars and leashes for the puppies. I’ve hesitated to do this mostly because of Bear. He looks at a collar on any dog smaller than he is and thinks, “Oh good! They installed a handle on this toy for me!” He then lifts said dog and runs off with him, not noticing that he’s strangling his toy. It’s for this reason that Moosie goes naked, and the reason these puppies will be micro-chipped.

I’ll admit to wanting two pink collars, but the store didn’t have two so I settled for one purple collar and one pink one, then bought matching leashes. My girls are styling! Radha got purple and Kali got pink. When they’re wearing them we’ll be able to tell them apart with a glance, which won’t be all that often. Even though these collars were designed to grow with the puppy, I’m also not betting on them being big enough once the girls are adults. I swear these two are an inch taller every day! I’m now thinking they’ll top out at a hundred pounds each.

Perhaps I’ll need them for some of the lambs that will be arriving shortly. I used a dog collar for Peanut for a while, but he ended up so bonded that he followed me everywhere and I didn’t need a leash. He came when called, too.

So once their collars were on, I took them for their first official walk. Up until now, I’ve been controlling them with voice commands. They have “sit” down perfectly. They also know “NO!” but translate that to mean “I shouldn’t have done that, I think I better sit,” which works perfectly for me, since I usually only use “NO!” when puppies chase sheep or chickens. They also know “Come” but seriously dislike the meaning of that word, since it rightly indicates the end of playtime.

Actually, I’m only a part-time trainer. They’re learning best from interacting with Moosie and Bear. My boys are rarely ever on a leash and they almost always come when I call. What the boys do, the girls copy. The nicest part is that the boys have a limited tolerance for play time, Bear having far more than Moosie. When they’re done, they simply start back toward the orchard, leading the girls home. Nice!

Once on had their leashes attached, we started off across the pastures. Radha didn’t pull or resist the leash at all, just walked alongside and then a little ahead of me. Kali was more uncertain about this string attached to her neck, but when Radha didn’t react, she settled into walking at my heels. I was very impressed. We walked a while, then I let them cool off in the water, then took them past the sheep and chickens without incident. It’s almost too easy.  I’m sure they’ll give me fits later, but for the moment, they’re taking each other for walks in their pen.

Now, onto the biggest dang Crawly Back I’ve ever seen in my life. First, if you don’t know, a crawly back is the larvae for the Green Fruit Beetle. It spends its early life in composty soil, crawling around on its back as it eats bits of organic matter. I think it uses its back because it has useless little feet on its sides and a segmented body with pretty good heft, so it’s easier to push itself through the soil with its back.

For the record, I totally approve of crawly backs in my compost but I don’t at all care for the adult version of this bug, the Green Fruit Beetle. Although this scarab beetle is a beautiful iridescent green and only about an inch and a quarter long, it can’t wait to get its mandibles onto my ripe fruit. I’ll find three or four all happily sharing a peach or plum. And they’re awkward flyers, more likely to bump into you than fly around you. The cats consider them toys, since once they’re on their backs they can’t easily right themselves. Kind of ironic, if you think about it.

This massive crawly back showed up in my Hugel, which has now decomposed nicely into a beautiful pile of dirt. I was planting pumpkins when my hoe turned him up. That’s a tablespoon he’s sitting in. This guy will be double or triple the size of a green fruit beetle when he morphs, able to take a whole peach in a single bite!  As much as I’d love to know what he is, I couldn’t leave him where he was, so I moved him to another composting area.

But I’ll be keeping my eye on that area. It won’t surprise me if one of those rhinoceros beetles comes walking onto the porch this summer. That is, if the chickens or cats don’t find him and decide he looks like a feast. I guess that’s okay, too.

 

Creekside

There are many things for which I’m grateful in my life, but until recently I’m not sure I would have put finding this property at the top of that list. Today I think I’m ready to do that.

How I ended living here was a strange experience in itself. The story begins on Memorial Day weekend, 2010, when friends invited us to come camping with them at Dead Horse Ranch. I wasn’t very excited about it, but that’s because my father had been a backwoods boy. That meant my childhood was spent in a tent every weekend all summer long so he could get his nature-fix. Camping, in this case, meant campgrounds as isolated as our Suburban could handle. Compared to those campsites, Dead Horse Ranch campground is a midtown apartment building.

As we packed up to return to Phoenix, my friend suggested that we take a detour to Page Springs Road and visit the wineries. “There are wineries up here?” was my startled response.

By the time we drove past the fish hatchery my head was spinning. I’ve lived in Arizona (off and on) since 1980 and like to think I’ve traveled the state more than most– I’ve seen the quartz falls outside of Wickenburg, got stuck in sand outside of Carefree, been to the Bisbee Breakfast Club restaurant, fell in love with Jacob’s Lake, and got lost in Tonopah trying to buy something off of Craigslist– but I didn’t even know Cornville existed and had never been down Page Springs Road. I couldn’t believe how beautiful it was.

After visiting the wineries we stopped at the Grasshopper Grill for lunch. That’s when my friend’s husband threw a real estate flyer at my ex and said, “One of us should buy a place on Oak Creek so we can go kayaking any time we want.”

That made me laugh. My ex and I had spent a dozen years building the then-greenest house in Scottsdale. There was no way I was moving. Ever. Period.

Little did I know that God–the Universe, Heaven, Whomever– was conspiring against me.

The ex went back to work the next day but spent his time looking at that real estate flyer. He called me at lunch and said, “What do you think? Should we consider looking?”

My response was “Absolutely not!” We’d moved eleven times, two of them international, over the course of our marriage. I was staying put in the house I’d made my own. He pressed. He insisted we’d ONLY be looking.

At last, I said “Fine, but before we look at anything we have to make a list and it has to be stupid list. Everything you ever wanted in a house has to be on that list.”

And it was a stupid list. Here are a few of the requirements: best neighbors in the world, free and unlimited water, on Oak Creek, a barn, a tractor with implements, more than 4 acres, affordable. Our list was so ludicrous that I was utterly and completely certain I was never leaving Scottsdale.

I guess you know what happened. Yep, the second house we looked at. Even that neighbor thing. Al and Elena were having a party that day. They invited us to have beers. We talked about the house and the acreage and its history. We were there for easily forty minutes, then returned to the house and talked with the agent about the possibility of making an offer.

Then we started for home, turning from Page Springs Road onto Cornville Road, and that finger of God thing happened. It’s happened to me a few times in my life. My whole body tingles with the knowledge that THIS MOMENT is really important.

I looked at the ex and said, “You know, if you really want that house, I think we need to make the offer today.” He immediately turned around and we went to the agent’s office. The owner accepted our offer on Monday. Tuesday they had another offer for more money.

Yeah, meant to be, at least for me since I’m still here, despite the divorce, floods, downed fences, dying cows, escaping pigs and Tiny, who definitely looks like she’s going to give me three little lambs around July 1st. She’s going to want to give me one of those lambs, I just know it.

Then today, my ranch manager Christina and I went down to the side of the creek to clear away a few of the massive knots of fencing that the flood so kindly made for us. It was hot but working in the water was so nice that we decided to walk up the creek for a way. As we passed under a massive Sycamore tree, we looked up to see a young Bald Eagle perched on a lower branch, watching us. The water deepened, and grew really cold. Before long we were both swimming.

And then we reached a place suitable for fairies. No houses, no road noise, only greenery, trickling water and massive downed trees spanning the creek like bridges.

I ready to admit it. This place was always supposed to have been mine and I’m very grateful that it still is. Who knew I’d become a happy Cornvillian?

Belated Beans

First, a turkey update since the black hawk just interrupted my blogging by trying to take a baby turkey. Tom’s girls laid about three dozen eggs and settled down to brood at the beginning of May. It was bad from the beginning. Rather than stay on their nests full timethe first two weeks, they got up daily to help themselves to water and nibbles. I knew from their very bad maternal behavior there was no chance I’d get many hatchlings and a good chance I wouldn’t have any.

And, indeed, only five babies hatched. Considering I had expected none, this was a miracle. However, as everyone else was celebrating the adorable newborns, I predicted that most of the babies would die. That’s because Tom is nine and he’s mating with hens who are both his daughters and his granddaughters, or in the case of one hen, possibly his great-granddaughter. Last year, I had a half dozen poults die from what I suspect is an intestinal malformation.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I was a little off on that prediction. Two of the five have survived the really dangerous first week. Now all they have to do is avoid being eaten by the ravens and the black hawk. And maybe Moosie, although he’s been surprisingly good about the turkeys nesting not far from his porch. Or maybe the fact that they’re up here by the house is why he hasn’t bothered them. This isn’t his usual hunting grounds.

As for the ravens, this year I have a new and unexpected assistant in the raven-chasing business. A pair of red-winged blackbirds are nesting in the gigantic ash tree that’s across the ditch from my pond. For a point of reference, that’s about a hundred feet from where the turkeys have their nests.

The blackbirds had considered nesting on one of the small cottonwoods that have their feet in the pond but that’s where the puppies play. When I no longer saw the male hanging on the cattails, I thought they’d moved on, looking for a safer and larger body of water. Then shortly before the turkey eggs began to hatch, I watched as a raven began to swoop in toward the area where the turkeys were sitting. I grumbled and started to clap my hands, which sometimes works to drive them off. At the same time I heard the metallic cry of the male blackbird. He came streaking out of that ash tree to dive-bomb at the raven’s head. Never mind that he’s about a third of the raven’s size. Yay for brave and determined birds!

Deterring the black hawk is a different matter, since that bird personifies patience. (Can birds personify anything?) I’ve mentioned before that the black hawks have a nest across the creek from the back of my property. Their hunting strategy is to sit in one spot for so long that all their potential prey forgets they’re there. Then down they drop to snatch whatever it is they’ve had their eye on. Beware the heron who refuses to give up that fish or crawdad it just caught. Last year, one of the hawks snapped a blue heron’s neck when it noisily resisted.

Today, the hawk failed. As it dropped, Tom sounded the alarm, the dogs came running while the turkey hens flew across the ditch. As for the babies, they went to ground. One of the hens landed inside the fence around the pond, where the puppies were playing. Although I know very well that she could have held her own against the pups– ask my cats what it’s like to challenge a turkey hen; they know better– I went in and “encouraged” her (chased her until she decided she needed to fly out) to leave. Now I’m back at the computer and onto today’s belated bean planting.

When I first moved to Cornville I searched online for a planting schedule for this area. Over the decade or so that I’d spent cultivating my Scottsdale backyard until it was a year-round production organic garden supplying almost all my veggie needs, I’d learned to value knowing what to plant when. Coming to northern Arizona meant throwing away years of data since Phoenix is lower, hotter, and drier. This was actually just a brain dump, since I’d never really gotten around to writing it down. Hey, if you do something long enough, it’s rote and I’d done it long enough to end up with two-year-old, five foot tall broccoli plants that in their second year gave sprigs the size of heads of broccoli.

If you’re curious how I achieved that miracle, it was through composting the usual greens and browns (pulled plants and dried leaves) with Starbucks coffee grounds, the shredded Arizona Republic and the also shredded contents of my deceased father’s filing cabinets. He’d saved every single tax return he ever filed, from 1949 until dementia made it impossible for him to write. Occasionally, I’d add fuel to the fire by dumping on a bottle of wine that I didn’t care for.

That formula worked for my Scottsdale garden. I’ve yet to find the perfect formula for this area. I may be closer to my goal this year because the Mason Ditch folks cleaned a section of ditch beneath my house this winter. As the ditch deepened, piles of mussel-shell laden, dead-crawdad filled dirt appeared. I was practically salivating over them. Once the work was finished, I went to work. I covered one stretch of my orchard garden with paper sacks (thank you, Modesto Milling for using paper for your feed sacks!), because paper sacks, as well as cardboard, attract worms. I put ditch bottom dirt on top of the sacking and let that sit for a few months. A few weeks ago that new guy and I finally got around to buying some plants. So far the squash, eggplant, tomatoes, and peppers, plus one tomatillo, are doing well.

But I wanted green beans. I love fresh green beans. No, I love fresh Blue Lake green beans. My mother never saw a canned vegetable she didn’t like, and maybe my love for Blue Lake green beans is because that’s the brand she bought when I was growing up. But I knew from the the planting schedule I found on the internet my first year here that I was way behind schedule for planting beans. Although the schedule says you can plant beans until July 15th, my experience here has been that if they’re not in by mid-May they don’t do well.

I tried rationalizing. After all, I don’t really have time this year to garden, at least not at the level I’d like. It didn’t work. Then it happened. I went grocery shopping yesterday and there was the seed rack, calling to me. I gave it a little push to turn it. When it stopped it was with the packets of Blue Lake Green Beans facing me. I was sure it was a sign. This year’s weather has been so strange. Surely, that means there’s still time.

I bought three packages, which is two packages too many, but they were less than $2 a piece. Today, I went down to my ditch bottom garden and chose a spot between the eggplants and the tomatoes and dragged out a trough. As I dropped the beautiful white bean seeds into the trough I assured myself these beans were going to do just fine. Then in case they don’t, I also seeded in some cantaloupe, watermelon, pumpkin, marigolds and Mexican sunflowers, because…why not?

I just went back online, to see if there’s a link to that schedule I found. Much to my surprise, there’s a new and improved version from the county extension office. It arranges the info by both date and elevation, but lacks charm. In my older version of the schedule, it lists no seeds or plants to be planted during the month, but says instead: “Hot. Keep weeds pulled!” Good advice. In case you are looking for the schedule, here’s the link.