The Accidental Farmwife

My cows like moooosic

2012-03-01T02:56:00.001-08:00

Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast. ~ William Congreve, 1697.

A video on YouTube shows a tuba player and a trumpeter attracting an entire herd of cows in France. "Oh when the cows...come marching in...oh when the cows come marching in...."

By the time the gentlemen have finished their jazzy tune, they have a long line of bovines staring at them, shaking their heads and jingling their bells along with the music.

Dogs will often chime in with their own howling song when they hear their humans singing. The singing really elicits a strong response from them.

They can't help but join in. My cat doesn't particularly like me practicing my karaoke songs (in the kitchen where the acoustics are best), but she certainly does notice. She makes loud comments, but I don't think she's singing along.

Does music truly have the power to soothe animals? The Farmer seems to think so.

When I first moved in to the farm, I was surprised to notice that he keeps his portable stereo cranked up and blaring tunes through the barn all through the day and night. The man is deaf in one ear, so perhaps he doesn't realize just how loud he has made their world. I turn it down when he isn't around.

I have noticed, however, that when it's time to shear the sheep, the music is a welcome distraction. The sheep are quiet and subdued when music is playing.

And it's easier to shear a sheep that is calm and keeping her hooves to herself. The music might also have an affect on the Farmer, who is attempting to hold a struggling sheep down while he relieves her of her wool.

When the chickens are fighting, a little bit of Motown seems to temper their aggression.

And when we are asking cows to remain contained in small sheep pens, a lilting melody seems to occupy their minds.

Just as when my girls were small, I seem to have a song for every occasion. My mother sang 'Oh what a beautiful morning' and other familiar tunes throughout the day. I sing to the calf when I enter the room to feed him, and he steps toward me.

I sing to the horse and she agrees to leave her stall and enter the barnyard. I sing to the ram and he is distracted enough to let me pass instead of butting me in the leg.

Music has a hypnotic, entrancing effect. Some farmers claim that their animals like classical instrumental music, but I believe mine love to hear voices singing.

When they are in solitary confinement, a song on the radio will make them feel less alone. And when they are crowded in pens awaiting impending birth, the music calms their jangled nerves.

As I entered the barn last weekend, Freda Payne sang 'Band of Gold' and Diana Ross asked that we 'Stop, in the Name of Love.' I love the old tunes. I know all the words. And a happy Farmwife makes for happy farm animals.

I have an idea. Chelsea the sheepdog has been barking at nothing for weeks now. It is her new thing, and it is extremely annoying.

Many times I have been summoned outside by her panicked barking, only to find her standing and barking at her own shadow.

I call from the back porch and she looks at me for a moment, then resumes her monologue. I am thinking that music piped into Chelsea's area might distract her enough to make her stop barking.

She is an outdoor dog, and sleeps in her hay-lined doghouse at night, under a tree. Where would I put the speakers?

Maybe I can turn the music on in the stable and put a speaker up to the window so that the music streams outside.

If it stops her incessant barking, it will be worth the effort and extra electricity.

What station do I choose to play, you ask? Why, Kemptville's new radio station, STAR 97.5fm, of course. Nothing but the best for my babies.

Diana Fisher joins Drew Hosick on the morning show at STAR 97.5fm on Feb. 27. Tune your radio in and wake up with the Farmwife!

Hidin' on the big bad wolf

2012-02-27T04:50:00.000-08:00

In my half-asleep state the other night I thought I heard Chelsea the sheepdog barking in the barnyard but I wasn't completely lucid so I just went back to sleep. Some time later, at about 3 in the morning, Cody started barking, this time directly under my window. That got me up.

I lifted the blind and looked out the window. Cody's nose was pointing north, toward the back field. I quickly tiptoed to the other room to get a better look.

A full moon glowed down on the pasture. And there were three huge coyotes, truckin' across the field on a diagonal, toward the barnyard - and my sheep.

I pushed the window open, clapped my hands loudly and shouted at the coyotes. They turned and shot out of sight. In my panic I had scared them back into hiding - and probably woke everyone in the house.

Actually the Farmer was still asleep, on his good ear. My sneaking back into bed woke him. I told him about Wile E. Coyote and friends. "Why didn't you wake me?!" He said, as he swung his legs out of bed and pulled on his jeans.

I decided to accompany him, to be his lookout. We dressed warmly, almost too warmly for the night.

We didn't turn any lights on as we collected what we needed for the hunt.

The light would tip the coyotes off but we didn't need it anyway, the moon was so bright.

The Farmer had seen coyote tracks in the barnyard recently, so we had been leaving the horse and donkey out all night to scare them away.

On this night, however, the sheep were all sleeping around the feeders on their bed of hay and the bigger animals were nowhere in sight.

Just then we heard the clop clop of hooves on ice. The horse and donkey emerged from the barn, where they had no doubt bullied the sheep for the best sheltered sleeping spots. This is how my sheep get broken ankles, the horse crowds into their space and steps on them by accident. I brought this to the Farmer's attention. "Some watchdogs they are," he commented.

We did see the pack of coyotes again that night, but they were moving too quickly behind the trees for a good shot. The Farmer swears that in that light, if I had only woken him when I first saw the pack, he would have hit at least one.

We decided to open up the interior room of the barn, most recently vacated by the calf and cow, for the sheep to use.

They could go in there for shelter and safety, and the short door meant the horse and donkey could not follow.

The next night, sheep were safely and happily holed up in the barn, and the horse and donkey were guarding the door. In the morning, one of the fattest of the sheep was firmly stuck in the hay feeder.

They get stuck often, and don't have the strength, energy or coordination to get themselves back out.

The Farmer tried tying a rope around her and pulling, but she just lay there like a lump, firmly stuck.

I climbed into the feeder, wiggled under her hind end and pushed up until he could pull her out.

This, I thought, is how farmers have heart attacks.

On the way back to the house the Farmer told me that he had seen a sheep with blood around her neck.

She had obviously gone a few rounds with the coyote before he was interrupted by the donkey and she wriggled loose.

Those coyotes are four-legged, mangy vampires. They always go for the neck.

We can't be out there all the time, keeping our animals from harm.

Hopefully they will have the sense to head for shelter when night falls or when the horse and donkey spot a coyote. I've seen them standing stock still, my two sentries, staring off into the distance. The sheep were staring in the same direction, so they must have been communicating danger to each other.

I followed their gaze, without moving a muscle, and watched the quiet field for more than a minute before I suddenly saw what they were watching.

A lone coyote stepped down from his perch on the stone fence and loped back across the field to his den.

Baby's Day Out

2012-02-16T06:35:00.000-08:00

Ginger and her baby were making a right mess of the lambing area. We had already moved them twice - from the smaller to the bigger pen and then out into the open section of the barn - each time they completed the muckification of their living area.

When no amount of coarse hay thrown down would better the situation it was time to move them again.

Ginger made it obvious that it was time for her to receive an eviction notice when she heaved her chest onto the sheep feeder to reach the hay bale on the other side, busting the feeder to smithereens.

We waited 'til morning, when the sun rose on a clear, mild winter day. The Farmer opened the door to the barn and I tried to lure the calf out. No way.

He had never been out before and wasn't about to go now without a little coaxing. My husband wasn't all that thrilled about going into the confined area with Ginger (who had recently tried to kill him) but it was the only way to get them out so in he went. Ginger quickly stepped out the door and her lamb was pretty quick to follow.

Once outside, Ginger turned and looked back at the barn. I think she was realizing she had given up easy access to food and water. The calf stood blinking at the blinding sun.

Then he took one step onto the ice and did a big Bambi slide onto his bum.

For the next two hours, he wandered around the barn, poking in corners and skittering across the ice.

I hooked up his milk bottle but he just sniffed at it. I think his nerves got the better of his appetite.

Young Angus, our bull, wandered over to examine the bottle where I had hooked it to the side of the outdoor pen. He rubbed his skull against it, up and down, until it fell into a pile of muck on the ground. "Thanks, Angus," I said, picking the bottle up and rinsing it in a clean puddle of water. I moved the hook over to the other side of the pen.

Angus slowly wandered around the half-wall and repeated his head-rubbing routine to knock the bottle down again.

At this rate, the calf was never going to get his milk.

I went back into the house and reported to the Farmer, who agreed that the calf would have to have access to his bottle or he just wouldn't survive.

Later that afternoon we cornered the calf, the Farmer lassoed him and we wrestled him back into the lambing room where he was born.

I opened the door to the one remaining clean pen and gently shoved him in.

He let out one long, plaintive wail when he realized his mother wasn't with him.

Ginger, who hadn't been all that interested in her calf when she realized he wasn't going to suckle, suddenly wanted to get into the lambing room with him.

She pushed on the barred door and pawed at the ramp outside.

She bellowed and wailed and stood staring me right in the eye when I went out to fill the water trough.

"He doesn't need you, Ginger. And you just make a mess," I told her.

She went back to stand outside the door of the barn, confused. Her mooing got a little softer. I could hear the calf in the barn, rustling around, but he didn't return her call.

Once happily ensconced in his own plush pen, the calf (whom I have been calling Baby), got back into this bottle-drinking routine.

He only likes the milk when it's warm, however, so you have to get him when he's hungry.

We also gave him some sweet hay, a bucket of water and a handful of sweet feed, to awaken his senses.

He likes the water, and nibbles on the hay.

When I go in to refill his bottle, he is lying in the corner, chewing his cud. "Oh look at you, all grown up, chewing your cud," I told him.

He got up, did a big cat stretch and wandered over to the corner to drink his warm bottle of milk.

We have about two more weeks of solid bottle feeding before he can start relying on hay and grain as his main food sources.

I'm amazed he has lasted this long. And I'm getting way too attached to this animal.

The true romantic life of the farmwife

2012-02-13T12:51:00.001-08:00

My calf is doing quite well, all things (damp cold and a mama who won't feed him) considered.

He gets just over seven litres of milk replacer a day, which is what the latest research calculates is the optimum amount for growth. I hook two 2-litre bottles of formula to the side of his pen in the morning and another one and a half bottles at night. When he reaches about six weeks of age (I think he is three weeks now), he should have developed his rumen (so he can chew his cud). At that point we can start him on some solid food.

I'm thinking we need to close off half the cattle area in the barn so that only the calves can get in one side, through the little sheep door.

They can go in there for shelter and we will put grain in the feeder to fatten them up. We can't give the mama cows or the bull access to the grain or they will eat it all.

If the Farmer goes for this plan, I get the credit. Ten points for me for coming up with a calf-feeding plan all on my own. Hopefully the bull doesn't take it upon himself to remove the barriers that we build. He certainly is strong enough.

Someone told me the other day that they thought the life of a farmwife was 'romantic'. I looked up romantic in the dictionary and this is what I found. Something is 'romantic' when it is 'impractical or fantastic in conception or plan'.

Well, farming is not for the pessimistic or easily disappointed, that's for sure. You have to be a dreamer and you have to practice looking on the bright side of things.

Because nature has a sense of humour and it doesn't always work in your favour. But I wouldn't say that farming was based on fantasy.

You can also say that something is 'romantic' when it 'has no basis in real life'. That just makes me laugh. Because there aren't too many things that are more 'real' than farming. So I guess I would say that I disagree with that particular definition.

If romance is 'a narrative dealing with characters involved in heroic, adventurous or mysterious events', however, I would have to agree that farming is indeed romantic.

As farmers we are adventurous, because we invest in nature and all its unpredictability.

We take risks, plant seeds, encourage animals to mate, and optimistically prepare for the fruits of our (or their) labour.

The growth and development of everything on the farm, from lamb to lettuce, is a mysterious event, indeed. And finally, the Farmer is definitely my hero, when he does everything he can to save the life of a weak lamb and it slowly comes around to the land of the living.

I too feel heroic when I rescue a sheep from its strangling web of baler twine, or find a newborn calf in the snow and carry it to the barn in my arms, or feed a bottle of milk replacer to a baby farm animal that cannot live without it.

I think also because we live off the land and we operate in tune with the elements of wind, rain, snow, sun...this makes the farm life romantic. There is a primal, meaningful, and very real sense of what is important. If you don't do your farm chores, something dramatically negative will happen. Something will be spoiled, or broken, or harmed. There is purpose to our daily life.

This is what I was looking for when I lived in the city.

When I woke up on Saturdays, with the long weekend stretching ahead of me, and thought, "Now what?"

I wanted my activities to mean something. I didn't want time to be wasted. I wanted the romantic life of a farmwife. I just didn't know it yet.

Now, I have to point out that a synonym to 'romantic' is 'glamorous'. I find this truly hilarious. Because when I'm up to my knees in sheep manure, covered in sour milk or sweating under the weight of a bale of hay, I do not look or feel glamorous. When I'm trudging through snow, no makeup on, hair pulled back in a ponytail under a toque, in milk-stained barn coat and manure-caked snow pants, glamorous I am not. But I clean up good.

curious horsey

2012-02-07T18:02:00.000-08:00

2012-02-03T05:27:00.000-08:00

I can't believe he ate the whole thing.

2012-02-03T05:24:00.000-08:00

Friday morning dawned on a very sad-looking dog named Cody. Our noble watch dog just stood in the middle of the yard in the freezing rain, head hanging down. I brought him in

I brought him water throughout the day but he wouldn’t touch it. He seemed to be uncomfortable, continually and toweled him off. He slowly made his way over to his sleeping rug and lay down. changing his position, flopping back and forth. He never left the rug. Finally, he drank the water…and promptly brought it back up. We moved him to the basement, where accidents are more easily forgiven. I made him a nest of towels at the bottom of the stairs.

Friday was a rotten day anyway with the weather, so I didn’t take Cody for his walk. He went out a couple of times for fresh air, but wasn’t moving too quickly. I started to worry that our 13-year-old dog, who normally bounds around like a pup, was starting to feel his age in a serious way. He resisted food and continued to vomit throughout the night.

On Saturday morning I took Cody for a slow walk. Normally he pulls me on the end of his leash, anxious to get out and examine every track and paw print on the road. This time he walked like an old man, right beside me. Every once in a while he would stop in his tracks, and stare up at the sky or a tree or straight into my eyes. He was just taking a break. If I tried to turn him around in the direction of home, he would gently resist. He wanted his walk. I think he follows the Cree way of thinking that if you are sick, you can’t let it rest on you. You have to get up and shake it off, get some fresh air, keep moving.

As we walked, it suddenly dawned on me. The last time I saw him eat was Thursday evening, when I returned from shopping. The last thing he had in his mouth was a rawhide chew bone from the Dollar Store. I wondered how many pieces he tore that rawhide bone into before attempting to swallow it.

Back in the house, I called the vet. She informed me that if the clump of rawhide did not work its way through on its own, Cody would require surgery. And at 13 years old, I wouldn’t want to put him through that. The Farmer and I gave Cody a dose of ‘bute’ painkiller that was half the size of the dose the calf got. It seemed to work. He settled down and the vomiting stopped.

I was out with girlfriends Saturday night but I couldn’t stop thinking about my dog. I felt terrible for giving him a treat that caused an intestinal obstruction. Sunday morning I checked him again and he just seemed so weak—I worried that he was dehydrated and dying. He rolled over as if to ask me to rub his tummy. The look in his eyes brought tears to mine. He seemed to be trying to communicate ‘I’m sorry that I ate the whole thing. But can’t you help me?’ I very gently ran my hands over his belly, in the direction of digestion. I repeated this several times, while he lay still and closed his eyes. When I took my hands away, his eyes remained closed. I quietly got up and went upstairs.

Just then I heard his footsteps behind me on the stairs. Carefully, tripping once, he lifted his weak legs and followed. I brought him outside, where he took another drink of water and urinated. Suddenly he had a new look in his eyes. He wagged his tail, and sniffed at his empty dog dish. I ran back into the house and got a hot dog. Ripping it into small pieces, I fed them to him, one by one. I didn’t want to worsen the blockage. His appetite had returned! We fed him a bit of grease from a roast duck to aid in the unblocking. He gobbled it up. I left him half an hour and then peeked outside again. He was sitting on his doghouse like Snoopy, waiting for me to take him on his walk. By the end of the day all bodily functions were back to normal and he was on the road to recovery. Please don’t feed your four-legged friends rawhide chew bones. They can be lethal.

the as-yet-to-be-named calf

2012-02-03T05:21:00.001-08:00

How to keep a calf alive

2012-02-03T05:20:00.001-08:00

Ginger had a little bull calf last week. It’s her fifth calf. She has successfully had healthy babies every year since we got her. Betty hasn’t always been so lucky. She had a calf the first year, then she didn’t take to the artificial insemination the second year (even though I let her choose the bull out of the magazine). Last year Betty’s calf was born without the suckling reflex. We managed to turn that situation around by doing what we do when the sheep have that problem. We milked the mother of her valuable first milk colostrum, and fed that liquid gold to the baby. Then we gave the baby a shot of selenium. Within a few hours it was up and nursing. Amazing.

Ginger’s calf appeared big and healthy but it soon became apparent that it too was lacking a suckling reflex—in fact he didn’t even seem to know what his mother was there for. The Farmer almost got trampled trying to steal colostrum for the calf. We really have to install a proper head gate and chute one of these days, so that we can work with the cows that aren’t as friendly (so far only Ginger-the-suspicious falls into that category).

The selenium shot didn’t work. The calf was up and walking around, but getting weaker by the hour. I went and made a bottle of milk replacer and taught him how to drink from it. That saved his life. Now he has a 4-pint bottle in the morning and another in the late afternoon. He’s living on that. How, I don’t know. I’m sure it doesn’t have enough in it to satisfy his hunger and I worry that his growth will be stunted.

The Farmer wants to try to put the calf on another mother to see if he will take a hint. Mocha would probably let him. She’s a nice girl.

The calf nibbles on the hay and sips at the water, mimicking his mother, but until his rumen develops, he won’t be on solid food. Milk is his main meal.

When I open the big door to the barn and it scrapes across the snow, the calf wakes up. He gets to his feet, does a big cat stretch, and starts honking for me. He actually sounds like a goose. When I come into the room and walk over to strap his bottle into the holder on the side of the pen, he comes bounding over. Sometimes Ginger sticks her big fat head in the way and tries to knock him away from the bottle. I think she’s jealous. Luckily, she still combs and grooms her little one with her big, scratchy tongue. He needs this physical contact to thrive. Many farm animals will lose their interest in their babies if they don’t nurse. Some will even try to harm their young. Ginger seems to enjoy her calf, although she has given up on coaxing him back toward her udder. I take every opportunity to pet and scratch the calf, behind his ears and under his chin, so he gets used to me.

I would like to move mother and child into a larger pen, because when Ginger lies down to sleep she doesn’t always confirm her calf’s location. She squashed his leg the other day so he had pain as well as hunger and cold to deal with. I gave him some of the pink liquid painkiller that we bought for the horse. The medicine makes him sneeze and cough. He makes a big fuss and doesn’t want to take it anymore but it seems to be doing the trick. He can walk around on that leg now. Thankfully it wasn’t broken.

At about six weeks of age we can start the calf on grain and hay. We only keep the female calves. When the bulls get to be about nine months old they become too big and bull-headed to handle so we call Dennis the drover to come and take them away to market. Hopefully this little calf, whom I have yet to name, will get to live that long.

The emotional roller-coaster that is life on the farm.

2012-01-25T10:52:00.000-08:00

Early last week I went out on a mild pre-snow morning and found Julie's calf in the hay under the feeder.

The little thing was about the size of a black lab. I picked her up, waved her under mama's nose and backed myself up into the barn. Julie started to follow me in, but as I was tucking the calf into a stall I realized the bull had followed me in first. Just then the Farmer shows up. Why does he always show up just at the moment when I am royally screwing up?

"Great. Now how are you going to get him out of here?!" the Farmer inquired.Young Angus swung his big bull head around, bumping into the medicine cabinet and work shelf, threatening to knock them both to the floor. This is not the first time that I have thought, thank goodness he's a really tame bull. I scooped up some sweet feed, squeezed past him out the door and waited for him to negotiate a three-point turn back out of the barn. Then I had to do the whole bait-and-wait routine with the calf again, successfully luring Julie into the barn. Finally. I was exhausted.

On the way back through the barn, I stopped to fill up the water trough. Rambo came over to see what I was doing, and I patted him on the head. Big mistake. Next thing I know I'm on the ground, and my thigh hurts where Rambo has head-butted me. And I can see he's lining himself up for another hit. I jump to my feet, kick my leg in his general direction, and shriek something at him. I think the shriek startled him more than the kick did. His rock head is much harder than my shin. He was sizing me up for another smack, so I took off out of the barn, the big fat sheep hot on my heels. I jumped into the cattle chute and he finally wandered away, with an unmistakable swagger. I sat for a moment and let the adrenalin drain from my veins. In my five years knowing Rambo, he has never attempted to hit me. Then again, I usually tickle him under the chin. The Farmer says the pat on the head is a direct challenge to his ram-hood.

And then it was Ginger's turn to calve. I was first to notice her heading off on a tangent across the snowy field, for no good reason other than to search for the best place in which to give birth. Later that day she had settled for the barn, and she was starting to show signs of labour. We locked her in, but had to usher Young Angus out first. He didn't want to miss the show this time. He is always very interested in the new calves and stands staring at them for a long time after they are born. Sometime after midnight the Farmer went out and found Ginger with her new calf. He put the calf on a trolley and moved the new little family into a warm, dry lambing pen. Well it was dry, anyway. Now it's mucky and cold. But at least it's warmer than outside. We spent most of today trying to get Ginger's calf to suckle. The little guy just doesn't have the reflex and as time passes it is less and less likely that he will recover. I can get him to drink a bottle of milk replacer, but it just isn't the same. The Farmer managed to steal some valuable colostrum from Ginger (against her willshe wants to kill my husband with those big feet of hers) and fed it to the calf. He seems to have enough energy but that too will fade as the temperature drops if he doesn't start to suckle.

We gave him a shot of selenium and the Farmer has just run into town to get more Vitamin A, D and E. I will go out in another couple hours and feed him two more pints of milk replacer, but we may just be postponing the inevitable. Not all endings are happy ones on the farm.

and the calf wore eyeliner

2012-01-13T12:38:00.001-08:00

Betty carries her pregnancies so well, you don't know she's pregnant until her udder starts to swell up. We assumed she had caught, but she missed one year so you never know with her. It's always her little secret, right 'til the end - which was yesterday.

The Farmer noticed the big cow was 'bagging up' and looking for a comfortable spot in the barn instead of lording over the hay feeder. "Ugly Betty is going to go first this time. I guess we have a new boss cow."

I went out to check proceedings but it can take hours, just like a human birth. All I saw was a lot of water. Betty looked bored in her birthing barricade, so I got her a forkful of hay to chew on and went back in the house.

A few hours later we went out again. This time a balloon (the water sac) was protruding from Betty's behind and she was mooing in a low chant. I turned to go and get my camera but the Farmer said, "It will be a while yet."

About an hour later the Farmer went out to check on Betty. I heard the door open a few minutes later and jumped off the couch to pull on my snow pants. "She did it," he said.

We are lucky that our cows have been able to give birth on their own. I have researched assisted births in cows and it doesn't sound like fun at all: pushing the calf back in, turning it around, using a calf pull to yank it out no thank you. I nearly faint when I'm watching the Farmer help a sheep. I can't imagine trying to deliver a cow.

When we got out to the barn the calf was just lolling around on the ground, collecting its wits. Betty was vigorously licking her baby, drying it off and stimulating its senses. The calf peeked at me from under its mother's huge snout. Betty is a brown cow with a white face and her calf was black with a white face and thick black rings around the eyes.

What a pretty little thing, I thought. It looks like it is wearing heavy eye makeup, like Cleopatra.

"If it's a girl, her name will be Sophie. After Sophia Loren," the Farmer declared.

We filled up the water and hay and left mom and baby alone to get to know each other better. Young Angus, the daddy, stood at the half-wall and watched the proceedings.

I wondered what was going through his head as he stared at Betty and the calf. I rubbed his nose and he gave a little snort as if to say, 'leave me alone. I'm busy watching this.' After dinner, the Farmer said he was going out to check on the calf. I got engrossed in my book and didn't look up again until an hour had passed. Wondering what was taking him so long, I pulled on my snow pants and headed out again. I hoped he wasn't trying to move the 100-lb. calf to a dry pen by himself. I also hoped that Betty was on her best behaviour and hadn't head-butted or kicked him. These are the thoughts that ran through my head as I shuffled across the icy barnyard.

Slowly opening the door to the birthing area, I saw Betty standing in the corner, her calf standing beneath her. The Farmer's flashlight and teacup were on the half-wall. But where was the Farmer? I slowly moved farther into the pen and peeked around the half-wall, half-expecting to find my husband lying on the hay, unconscious. Nope. No Farmer. I looked outside. The other cattle stood just beyond the hay feeder, staring at me. Mocha mooed softly from inside the barn where the Farmer had moved her. It would be her turn next.

Just then I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. The Farmer was wedged between the cow and the wall. He was assisting the calf with the feeding. "Oh there you are!" I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thought you got yourself trampled."

The calf was up, it was suckling well, and the Farmer determined it was a healthy, strapping young bull. With eyeliner. So I named him Adam Lambert, after the glam-rock American Idol star. Maybe I'll email the real Adam a photo of his namesake. Hope he doesn't take offence.

Happy New Year!

2011-12-30T17:52:00.000-08:00

Since the very vocal show dogs arrived at the house in the front of our property, Chelsea the sheepdog has turned barking into an endurance sport. Sometimes she barks until she is hoarse, in response to whatever is being shouted to her in canine language from across the barnyard. I don’t always hear her. Tuning things out is a skill that I have developed over the years—possibly as the young mother of three small daughters, operating a daycare centre out of my house, or maybe it was when I worked in a large publishing house in Asia, where every cubicle seemed to host its own loud telephone conversation, online video or audio. I once worked with someone who insisted on reading the subject lines of his emails aloud every morning. (You know who you are). Anyway, my response to distracting sound is to mentally turn the volume down. And so I don’t often hear Chelsea’s barking, unless it changes in tone to something more frantic and tell-tale.

Yesterday she was sounding the alarm so I peeked out the window and sure enough, the door to the hay storage was open and I could see several fluffy butts in the doorway, helping themselves to the banquet. I could also hear the clip-clop of Belgian hooves on the wood floor. I quickly pulled on boots and barn jacket to investigate.

Some of the older, more experienced sheep turned tail and ran out of the barn as soon as they heard the patio door slide open on the house. They knew the gig was up. Others responded to my yelling as I clumped across the muddy barnyard by tripping over each other to get out of the hay store. Chelsea wagged her tail and smiled at me as I passed. “Good girl. You’re a good watchdog, Chelsea.” I gave her a quick pat on the head—nothing too lingering or friendly—she snaps on a whim.

As I reached the open door, Donkey spotted me. He had the lid to the grain bin open and was helping himself to mouthfuls of molasses-laced sweetfeed. I cornered him and instead of going around the nearest round bale, he leapt straight up into the air and cleared it. “That was impressive, Donk.” (And the Farmer said he was getting old.)

Just then Misty stuck her head out of the lambing room to see what the commotion was about.

“How the heck did you get in there?” I asked her, and she demonstrated, ducking and squeeeezing herself back through the open door. Then the two ringleaders kicked up their heels and nibbled at passing sheep on their way back out to pasture.

I don’t know how some farmers do it, feeding their horses once a day. If we don’t keep a steady supply of fresh hay available, our animals get into all sorts of trouble.

By the look of some of these fat sheep, the Farmer says we’ll be having lambs any day now. That never gets old. There’s nothing like waking up New Year’s Day and going out to the barn to discover a newborn lying in the hay. It’s nice and mild this year too so they should be okay. By the time the bitter cold arrives in February, they will be old enough to eat grain and hay and will have enough fat on them to keep them warm. The next batch of lambs won’t be born until April.

Mocha, Betty, Julie and Ginger will be having their babies soon too. We got a salt lick with selenium in it so we shouldn’t have the same problem we had last year, when the calves were born without a sucking reflex. It’s always a bit scary, watching something so huge being born, but we’ve been lucky so far and haven’t had any complications. Fingers and toes crossed. Knock on wood.

The last of the spring lambs have been sent to market. They were huge this year. Those Suffolk rams make big babies. Speaking of Philip, he has been released to the general population again, to fend for himself against Rambo. As the ewes have all been bred by now, the men shouldn’t be feeling too competitive. Rambo can be a territorial old grandpa, but he’s pretty reasonable. I think Philip will be safe.

Happy New Year to all our loyal readers. May the coming Year of the Dragon be a good one for you.

All I Want For Christmas...is You.

2011-12-21T17:50:00.001-08:00

“Santa baby...slip a sable under the tree...for me. Been an awfully good girl, Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.”

Last year I ordered some chickens and piglets to be sent to my Ugandan foster child’s family for Christmas. I found out later that the regularly sponsored families are already off the ‘needy’ list, so they aren’t eligible for livestock gifts. Besides, my family already has a cow. So their village got my chickens and piglets, and they were dispersed to the neediest families in the area. And that’s ok with me—I don’t mind that my foster child’s family didn’t get the animals. I feel bad that they didn’t get anything from me at Christmas, but I sent a few extra things for Valentine’s Day as soon as I found out.

The point is, I sent the gifts with the hope that they would go to someone who needed and appreciated them, and I believe that is exactly what happened.

That really is the best we can hope for at Christmas—that it be less about what we bought and more about kindnesses exchanged.

When my girls were little, I remember playing one VHS movie after another, from about Halloween onward, so that we wouldn’t be subjected to a barrage of Christmas toy commercials. It worked for a little while, until they started school. Then they would come home with a list for Santa, the product of recess-time collaboration.

I got away fairly easy though, I think. My girls never demanded name-brand items they knew I couldn’t afford, and they didn’t get into expensive technologies until they could help pay the bill themselves. I really think they like to plan, shop and give as much as they like to receive. And I think they have all learned how good it feels to take a name off an angel tree and buy a gift for someone less fortunate, or to put a handful of loonies into the Salvation Army kettle.

Now that they are older, Christmas is about getting caught up on things they need, padding their bank accounts and equipping them with gift certificates for Boxing Week sales. The gift giving has become very practical. In a way, the holiday is more about the gatherings than the gifts now.

We celebrate togetherness, with family and friends, and give thanks for the year as it comes to an end. Whether your 2011 was annus horribilis or annus mirabilis, it’s time to bid it adieu.

Next year is our year of weddings. My daughter and my sister will both be brides in 2012. It promises to be a whirlwind of excitement as we pass through planning stages and celebrations.

Another daughter is heading off to university in the fall. Mapping out plans for her future, sending her hopes and dreams out into the universe to see what comes back.

The Farmer and I will raise another batch of cattle, another wave of lambs, and perhaps a few kittens too. The seasons will come and go; we will work hard for our money, and eat well every weekend at our porch table, set for 16 to 20.

I sit at my desk and look out the window upon a beautiful sight. Our Belgian horse, Misty, is crossing the snow-white field on a diagonal. Her mane is blowing in the wind. She stops for a moment, realizing she has left her best pal Donkey behind. He is still snacking at the hay feeder. She raises her head and whinnies at him. He obliges her and follows the path she has made, out to the snowy pasture. I recognize that this is a sight I am blessed to witness every day. I have all that I need, right here.

Merry Christmas, dear readers. Thank you to everyone who sent me a card or email this season. I wish you the very best of life in the coming year.

2 weeks to a cleaner, leaner you!

2011-12-07T11:20:00.001-08:00

I’ve been battling a bit of happy-marriage weight gain these past few years, and a big year is coming up, with two family weddings. Besides that, I would rather lose the weight and fit into the clothes in my closet than go out and splurge for a whole new wardrobe in a bigger size.

I used to go to the gym or jog a few kilometers a day when I wanted to drop some excess weight. But a funny thing happened. My early-40s body does not wish to do punishing workouts anymore. It prefers yoga. So I bought a variety of yoga videos and a floor mat, lit some incense and candles and started working out. Within days I could see more definition in my muscles. But I still didn’t fit into my clothes.

I was procrastinating on Facebook one day when a friend in Ireland invited me to join her “14 days to a cleaner, leaner, you” group. I was intrigued. Having tried other ‘detox’ plans before, however (and failed miserably), I wasn’t interested in ingesting any more toxic herbs or supplements. After reviewing the shopping list and menu plan, I was pretty excited. It was all about eliminating sugar and starch and focusing on dark green vegetables and lean, organic meats. I could do that! The moral support and accountability factor of the online group was also very motivating.

I’ll admit I was worried the first couple of days when I seemed to be “high” on hunger and ready for bed by 6pm. But as soon as I took a closer look at the portions I was eating and realized they were out of balance, things started to level out and I felt much better. For example, this menu plan (I won’t call it a diet because it is so much more than that) advises that you eat the equivalent of 100gms of organic oatmeal, 2 whole eggs and 100gms of low fat cottage cheese, all for breakfast. Separately, that’s too much food for me. But if I followed the directions, blended everything together with a dash of cinnamon and fried it in a drop of olive oil like pancakes, I had a breakfast that would last in my belly for a good 5 hours. I didn’t get the usual blood sugar boost-and-crash either. Lunch and dinner called for a lean protein (chicken, turkey, or fish) with dark green leafy or cruciferous (don’t you just love that word? Means cauliflower or cabbage;) veggies. I ate a handful of unsalted nuts or seeds for a snack.

The only thing I really missed was my evening glass of wine. I realize, however, that my vino was a big reason for my weight gain, so I was happy to see it go for a couple of weeks: too much sugar.

I lost a pound a day for the first 6 days. My cravings for sweets, fruit and wine decreased to the point where my willpower overcame them. As I rounded the corner into the second week, something else started happening. My brain got sharper. As I worked on my writing assignments, words came to me more easily. I also found I didn’t forget things as often as I did before (when I would open the fridge and forget what I was looking for). That increased mental alertness can be attributed, I believe, to the detox from chemicals and artificial additives in my food.

I saw a program on TV where actress Jenny McCarthy explained how she reversed her son’s autism diagnosis, simply by eliminating chemicals from his food and environment. I’m telling you, folks, this is powerful stuff. This menu plan is also very similar to the cancer-fighting plan that most oncologists promote. Add some flax seed and cod liver oil to build the immune system (over-the-counter cold remedies are also full of chemicals) and you’ll feel fantastic.

When I hit the 10 pounds lost point, I celebrated with a small glass of the most delicious organic red wine known to man (Bonterra – a Cab Sav from California). To be honest, it was a bit rich for my new palate. That slowed me down, and I savoured every drop over about 2 hours.

By the time this article is in print, I should be down about 15 pounds. I plan to keep going on this plan, in moderation, until I feel like myself again. Of course, if these results continue, I won’t feel anything like the old me. I’ll have more energy and stamina than ever before. What a great way to head into 2012!

2011-12-01T12:18:00.000-08:00

Our barn has a revolving door.

2011-11-30T14:04:00.003-08:00

We have kept Dennis the drover (not driver but drover; a driver just drives while Dennis does much more—it’s a rodeo out there sometimes folks) busy this past week. First we had him come and pick up our three male bull calves. You could hear the truck and metal trailer clanging and banging around the corner of our dirt road well before you could see it coming up the hill. The cattle were anxious to get out of the pen that the Farmer had successfully lured and locked them into the night before.

I unhooked the electric fence wire (which I had already switched OFF), unlatched the front gate and swung it open for Dennis to drive through. His tires slipped a bit on the snow as he backed the huge trailer up to the mouth of the barn. With Dennis’ help, the Farmer let the female cows out. They were very happy to be free, and made a b-line to the feeder to see if the hay was any different from the stuff they had been eating on the inside.

I stood out of the way as Dennis ushered the bulls into the back of the truck. They obediently hopped aboard without any bait. When the metal doors swung shut, however, they began to bawl a little. This got their mothers’ attention. I went over and consoled my cows with kind words and a bucket of grain as the big white truck and trailer took their babies away.

This morning, the cows all stopped chewing and stood frozen as they heard the sound of the trailer rounding the corner again. Maybe they thought their bulls were returning, or maybe they thought they were the next to be loaded aboard.

“Young Angus is home, girls!” I said, cheerfully. Mocha turned her head quickly and looked at me, eyes wide. I opened the gate and the trailer backed into the opening. Dennis stepped down from the truck, walked around back and swung the doors open. “You’re home, buddy,” he said softly to the black bull, who was significantly bigger than the last time I saw him. I swear he grew another 25% in the short time he was gone.

We rented Angus out to one farmer in the spring, another in the summer and then he was home for just a day before he was rented out again for the fall. Some of his keepers fed him apples, while others fed him grain. His coat has a glossy sheen and he is far from the small calf that we first met a year and a half ago.

I stood between two large trees as the bull was released into the yard. Immediately he snorted, pawed the ground and then curled back his upper lip and sniffed the air. The girls came over to greet him, and he walked with them over to the pasture field, as if reacquainting himself with the property.

The cows are carrying his babies again and they will give birth in January and February. He will breed them one more time in March, and then we will probably sell him, possibly to one of the other farmers who have been renting him these past two years. He is a good bull, gentle natured, and he makes nice calves.

Next week we will start taking some of our bigger lambs to market. I know which one I want to say goodbye to first. He is a big Suffolk lamb, with a black face and white body. He used to jump in the feeders as soon as we filled them with hay. Not only will this soil the hay but the stupid lamb gets stuck in the feeder and it’s very difficult to get him out. We put him in with Rambo and his mate Gretel and he jumped out of that pen too. The Farmer put fences up over the feeders so he couldn’t jump into them anymore. The next day I found him on the highest stacked bale. I guess he decided to skip the feeder and go to the source.

Philip has been released to mate as many ewes as he can. He is wearing a red crayon block in a halter on his chest. I can see that he has marked more than half of the herd so far. His babies will be born in early April.

The population is ever-changing on the farm.

The Farmwife Rant

2011-11-24T08:03:00.003-08:00

I have been to at least ten countries in Europe, I’ve travelled Australia and I lived in Asia for three years. Sometimes I was mistaken for an American, because I was speaking English. Once I was told I wore my hair like a woman from France. On more than one occasion my roots were showing, because I was thought to be an Irishwoman. I was always proud to identify myself as Canadian. Everyone loves Canadians. And many people wish they were Canadian.

In my first posting in Asia, one of the other teachers actually posed as a Canadian because he felt he was accepted and treated better that way. He travelled with the Canadian flag emblazoned on his jacket and backpack. He was actually from New York. Part of the reason Canadians are loved so much, I think, is because we are so polite. It is in our nature to consider others, to follow the rules, and to put ourselves last. Sometimes our law-abiding nature makes us the brunt of jokes. I remember being teased in Melbourne because I didn’t want to cross the street until the electronic sign said it was safe to go—even though it was well past midnight and there wasn’t a vehicle in sight.

Well, if we are known the world over for being polite, we should live up to everyone’s expectations, shouldn’t we? Lately some of my fellow countrymen have been dropping the ball. Here are some examples of particularly impolite and rather non-Canadian behaviour I have noticed in the past week: 1. Rushing the traffic circle. Just because you are heading straight down County Road 43 does not mean you have the right of way through the traffic circle. That funny little upside-down triangle sign means yield; 2. If you are entering a gas station and you notice other vehicles waiting to enter the service bays, do not bolt ahead of them to take a spot. They were there before you. Just because you can steal the spot doesn’t mean you should. This rule also applies to parking spots at Bayshore; 3. If you have a cart full of groceries and someone approaches with just a handful of items, you should let them go ahead of you. It isn’t going to slow you down by much. And you weren’t in that much of a hurry anyway; you had a cart full; 4. If I am speaking to you, put your smart phone away. You are supposed to be listening to me, not reading your emails and text messages. 5. (This one really gets me) If there is even one person behind you in line for the cash, do not play your lottery tickets while everyone waits. More than once I have watched a line form while some petty gambler plays and wins, plays another and wins, plays another and wins, etc.

Okay, I think five rants are enough for today. I will save the rest up for another time. I don’t want to sound like a complainer. Because along with self-deprecating humour and ripe sarcasm, complaining is another thing Canadians are supposedly known for.

Honestly, it’s the little things that count. If you make a point to consider the people around you and to sacrifice a moment of your time for them, you will make the day better for at least two people and probably many more because that goodwill spreads quickly. And what are you in such a rush for anyway? More than once I have actually pulled over to let a tailgater pass, thinking to myself, I guess he’s late for his next car accident. Oops, I guess that was another complaint. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. Have a great week and remember: I’m watching you on the traffic circle.

2011-11-21T16:42:00.001-08:00

November thru the eyes of the hunting widow

2011-11-18T13:43:00.001-08:00

November is not just a grey, chilly and blustery preamble to winter. To the wife of a hunter, November is about the absentee husband. Now, this can be a good thing or a bad thing. It’s all in how you look at it.

Some hunting husbands look forward to their two weeks of deer hunting all year long. In the months leading up to November, they troll outdoors stores and websites looking for the latest in new gear for watching, photographing and otherwise capturing wild game. They watch hours of hunting shows on Wild TV, learning new tips and techniques for bagging the big one. Then they wait.

As the opening day of the hunt approaches, many hunters will kiss their wives and families goodbye as they head out for a weekend, a week or even two weeks in the bush with their comrades-in-camouflage (or, in the case of deer season, flame orange). They have packed bullets, beer, bacon and baked beans. It’s been proven—you can live on that for several days. There may or may not be a toothbrush in their travel bag. It isn’t always deemed necessary. And anyone who dares to shave at a hunt camp would not only risk ridicule from his cabin mates but he might also throw the luck of the hunt.

The wives of these hunters are known as ‘hunting widows’. Knowing that their husbands are gone for several days, they may take up redecorating the living room, or at least moving furniture around. Some hunting widows will go shopping, with their husband’s VISA card. This might be just something she was planning to do anyway, or it might be a bit of a dig at the husband who has left her alone with the kids while he goes off to play in the woods with his friends.

My hunter doesn’t go far from home to hunt. He may take a day trip to the St. Lawrence for geese, but mostly he stays on our own 200 acres, which he has mapped and laid out with trails cut through the woods and stands in the trees. He rises at 5am, kisses me goodbye, and slips downstairs to put the coffee on for his thermos. Then he goes out to the bush, climbs up onto his tree stand, and watches the sun rise. Now that the leaves are gone, I can often see his orange coat through the trees from my kitchen window, 50 acres away. When the girls were little, he would leave a walkie-talkie beside their beds so they could talk to him when they woke up. I’m glad my hunter doesn’t go too far from home. I kind of like having him around. We don’t get to see each other much during the season, however. He goes from the sunrise hunt to work to the sunset hunt...and then he falls asleep on the couch.

A friend of mine has a hubby who takes two weeks off work every year for deer season. He hunts in Quebec, as he owns property there. One year it was unseasonably warm and the deer were not moving. The forecast predicted more of the balmy weather for the next week. He called his wife after a few days to say that he would be calling off the hunt and coming home.

“Oh no you aren’t!” she told him. “You can stay at the cottage until the weekend!” Apparently she had been looking forward to the time on her own, and didn’t want him to come home to wait out his vacation loafing about the house. When he did arrive home, she handed him a list of chores to keep him busy until he returned to work.

It was another warm one this year, and I haven’t heard of many lucky hunters returning with buck or doe trophies for their wives. Oh well, at least it keeps them happy, busy and out of trouble.

Philip, Gretel and the twins

2011-11-18T13:41:00.001-08:00

We have a new addition to the Fisher farm. The Farmer brought a Suffolk ram home in the back of his truck last week. As he put the tailgate down and the ram hopped out onto the grass, I asked my husband what we should call our new sheep. Funny how this is always my first thought but it doesn’t occur to the Farmer that the animal needs a name.

“Uh, let’s see. He has floppy ears,” the Farmer replied. Well we couldn’t call him Floppy. That would just give the poor ram a complex. So I named him Philip.

We put Philip in the horse stall for now, after installing additional barriers so he couldn’t hop out over the feeders to freedom. The first night all he did was bawl until he was hoarse. We should have thought ahead. Sheep hate to be alone. The next morning we found a nice little ewe to keep him company. There might be a lamb or two born ahead of season in February–March.

Philip is very tame. He likes to have his nose rubbed and he comes right over to the side of the stall to be petted. I brought him a handful of sweet feed this morning to reward him for his good behaviour. He will have to stay in his stall until December, when he will be released to breed the females. We can’t put him in the barn with Rambo, or they might start fighting in the aisles. Love is in the air this time of year. The animals can smell that strange perfume and it makes them a little crazy.

Speaking of the ewes, we found the ringleader who was encouraging the herd to go running down the road on a daily basis. Gretel was easy to spot, as she had burrs all over her head from crawling under fences. She’s also extremely loud, with a voice that sounds suspiciously like my old enemy, the lamb squasher. I should get the book out and compare ear tag numbers. Anyway, she is currently serving as a companion to Rambo, who doesn’t really mind being alone but certainly prefers to have the company of a female if possible. And just like that, he doesn’t seem to stink anymore. It’s as though he has stopped applying that awful ewe-attracting cologne, because it worked. He caught one. There might be another lamb or two born in February–March.

I know I said I wasn’t going to write about my cats anymore but I feel this is the end of an era. I have no more tiny kittens in my basement. Since April, I have adopted out no less than 43 kittens after stealing them from ten female barn cats. Sheila, our barn cat-turned-house cat, was a real trooper. Not only did she nurse her own four kittens but she also nursed kittens from two other litters that I had stolen and brought into the house to tame. As I adopted them out one-by-one and sometimes two-by-two, Sheila would sit at my feet and let out this litany of complaints. I think it went something like, “you bring these cats in here, force me to feed them when they don’t even smell like mine, then just as I start to get used to them you take them away.” I learned to let her smell each kitten just as it was being packed up and shipped out. That seemed to work, and she no longer spent the evening calling and checking under furniture for her missing charges. And now it’s just Sheila and Shamus, a 6-month-old male (has had all shots and is fixed if you want him let me know!) in the house. They have similar markings and are probably siblings from two separate seasons. I call them the twins. With all the babies gone now, the twins spend their days lying on the sheepskin covered window seat in the sunroom. I think Sheila misses the kittens though. She has carried three stuffed animals upstairs, and is currently lying next to them on the rug.

Coyotes at Cocktail Hour

2011-11-18T13:39:00.001-08:00

The Farmer had been cooking for more than 2 hours. A farm-raised chicken and roast of beef sat side-by-side in the oven. My husband ran upstairs, took a shower and emerged well-dressed and refreshed as our first dinner guests arrived. He poured them each a glass of wine and we all retired to the porch to watch the sheep come in from the pasture on their diagonal, well-beaten path.

A few minutes later the Farmer pointed out the window and said to me (his eyes when his glasses aren’t handy), “what’s that in the middle of the field? What’s that? Is that a coyote?” My eyes searched the view for what he was pointing at. Suddenly it moved and came into focus. Camouflaged perfectly against the sandy grass and rocky ground, a young coyote ambled across the field.

Just two days earlier, a bold and brazen coyote came right into the barnyard and stole a fat lamb. The Farmer had been out hunting in the middle of the night but could not find the thief. Now here it was, at cocktail hour. And the Farmer couldn’t find his bullets.

The entire dinner party gathered at the porch window and yelled out the coyote’s movements as the Farmer ran upstairs and down, searching frantically for his bullets. I couldn’t help but think this wasn’t a recommended pre-dinner activity in any Martha Stewart or Good Housekeeping party guidebook. Finally, the Farmer found his bullets, loaded his gun, located the coyote (who had waited patiently at the corner of the field) and let ‘er rip. His shot was true. Moments later we had dinner guests pulling on boots to go and inspect the mangy mutt.

My husband the multi-tasker came in, washed his hands, served the veggies into the chafing dish on the buffet table and began carving the meat. And what was I doing all this time? Playing hostess with the mostest, of course.

Earlier in the week I had done my share of farming, I figure. I came home from a client meeting in Ottawa to a message on the phone from the neighbour: ‘your sheep are on the road again. They have been in and out of the pasture all day.’ Great. I took a shortcut through the field and opened the big swing-gate to the pasture before heading out through the bush to the road. There were my sheep, in two different groups. One was heading up the hill to the neighbour’s house. The other was heading toward county road 20. I emerged from the forest in the middle of them. I decided to get the ones headed for the highway first. I cut through the cornfield, headed them off on the road and managed to turn them back the way they came, waving my arms and making menacing growling sounds. I’m sure this activity is most confusing to Gracie and the other sheep who know me as the bearer of good things such as sweet corn and apples. But they willingly headed off into the bush. Next, I ran down the road to get the other bunch. Just as I reached them, the neighbour’s dogs came off the porch, barking. My sheep turned tail and ran towards me, bleating in fear. I jumped into the ditch and let them pass, hot on the trail of the first bunch of sheep. Now I had 100 sheep wandering through thorns and brambles in the forest. I could hear them complaining. I picked my way back through the bush into the field and lured them through the gate very slowly, with a bucket of sweet corn. The last sheep came through just as Mocha the cow noticed the sweet corn in my hand and came bounding over, tossing her head and hips like a bull in the ring.

The sheep broke out three days in a row last week. They can see meadows and corn fields through weak fences and leafless trees now. I guess this kind of bad behaviour is to be expected until snow covers the ground and sweet hay fills the feeders.

The gypsy life

2011-10-30T17:49:00.001-07:00

Some think I’m a little bit of a gypsy...others think I’m more of a witch but that’s ok; I’ll embrace either description. When I saw the sign go up on Lindsay Road for Blue Gypsy Wines, I was intrigued. And when I saw that they were open for business last weekend, I dropped in.

The ‘terroir’ in North Grenville is not exactly conducive to growing grapes, I am told. But grapes are not the only fruit from which one might produce delicious alcoholic beverages. Louis at Blue Gypsy makes wine from strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, apple, cherries and even cranberries. The latter, says Louis, is a perfectly appropriate substitution for your glass of wine with a turkey dinner. Doesn’t that just make your mouth water?? Louis has found a couple of other lovely things from which to make wine. Ginger offers a fresh bite on the palate while chilled maple conjures up childhood memories of taffy on the snow.

The wines at Blue Gypsy won’t give you a headache, because they are free of sulfites. They also strive to use fruit grown free of pesticides whenever possible. The natural flavours have not been enhanced with any chemicals. Louis and his partner Claire would like to operate Blue Gypsy Wines off the grid. With a combination of solar power, wind generator, pellet stove and back-up generator, the goal is to make their carbon footprint as tiny as possible. If you too have a passion to support things grown off the land locally and as naturally as possible, check out: www.bluegypsywines.com. Now I’m getting thirsty.

Do you have plans for Halloween? I don’t normally enjoy the festivities from an adult perspective; I like to see kids dressing up, having parties and going door-to-door but as someone who has never watched a horror movie in its entirety, I’m not one for thrills and chills and celebrating all things murderous and maniacal. I do, however, like to dress up. So I think this year, since I have amassed a few items from my work with the Crees, I will be an Indian. The Farmer can be my Cowboy. We barely have to change our current outfits. I have often been told I look like Wonder Woman, but I can neither afford nor do her costume justice this year. Maybe in 2012.

We plan to head over to Lock 17 for some Scary-oke (get it?) on Friday, October 28. Please join us if you can.

The coloured leaves of Fall didn’t last very long. The last windstorm blew all the leaves off our trees. The Farmer and his hunting party are down at the creek at sundown, shooting at Daffy Duck. We will have roast duck with a fruit demi-glace for Sunday dinner. Perfect fare to fend off the autumn chill.

I am heading in (against my will) to the bridal show in Ottawa tomorrow. The last thing I want to do is shuffle through hundreds of Bridezillas to kiosks selling things I truly cannot afford and do not need. But I am both sister of the bride and mother of the bride in 2012 (two different weddings – sorry for the confusion) so I am going for moral support and to present my opinion. Final details of both weddings have not yet been worked out but they are both proud North Grenville women so the venues, food and entertainment will no doubt be local. Maybe they would like to serve some Blue Gypsy Wine to their wedding guests. Sounds like a good idea to me.

I went in to the barn to feed Rambo who is locked up until further notice. We don’t want him to breed this year. Instead we will get a new Suffolk ram. Anyway, Rambo was exuding a musk like I have never smelled before. The Farmer said he does that to attract the females. Sure enough, next time I went out I noticed two ewes standing under the window to the lambing room. They were bawling and crying as if they had lost someone special. We had better get them a new ram soon, or they will be breaking in for conjugal visits with Rambo. Have a great week, everyone, and visit www.theaccidentalfarmwife.blogspot.com for the stories you may have missed.

RadarLove

2011-10-30T17:48:00.001-07:00

I looked out the window this morning and saw the sheep following single file behind Misty the Belgian horse as she went out to the pasture field. At first I thought they were just sticking close because they saw a coyote yesterday. Then I realized they had their noses to the ground. They were nibbling at the fresh green shoots that sprung from where Misty’s huge hooves had melted the frost. Opportunists.

Sheila the barncat-turned-housecat got fixed yesterday. Today I found her resting in the dollhouse, in the room with the felt carpeting. I think she was hiding on her kittens, who are still nursing at 8 weeks of age. Enough already.

Our turkeys turned out to be a lot heavier than we thought they would be. The females were 18 to 22 pounds, while the males were 28 to 35 pounds. There are going to be a lot of leftover turkey sandwiches eaten in North Grenville this week.

I did some research and discovered that the tryptophan in turkeys doesn’t really put us to sleep. That’s a myth. It’s the deadly combination of fats (gravy, stuffing, cheesy mashed potatoes, butter, PIE), alcohol and overeating that causes drowsiness. If we ate turkey on its own, without the trimmings and in moderate amounts, it wouldn’t have the same effect. Apparently a chunk of cheddar cheese has more tryptophan than a single serving of turkey. Interesting. But maybe only to me. I have learned that I am attracted to and a retainer of trivia. Many days I can’t remember my debit card PIN but I can remember the most obscure items of trivia. My dear old Dad used to say, “Diana, you’re smart in ways that’ll get you nowhere in the world.” Hmm. Well it does make me a valuable team member in a trivia contest, if nothing else.

We do tend to overeat at Thanksgiving but with our huge family dinners each Sunday, it’s like Thanksgiving every single week. This is why I have gained 25 pounds since my wedding day four years ago. And yes, I realize it’s more important to be healthy than thin, so you can stop writing me that email. But come on. That’s more than 5 pounds a year. At this rate I’ll be 200 pounds by my 50^th birthday.

I am thankful to be big and healthy. I’m happy to be able to work at home, and blessed to be fed so well by my loving husband the Farmer and Head Cook, even when the contracts are not flowing in.

I am grateful for children who, after having moved out of the house, now consider me their friend. I’m the one they call on their day off, when they want to ‘just hang out’.

Did you take time to consider your blessings this Thanksgiving? There’s a new trend, I noticed, where some people are doing away with the annual Thanksgiving dinner and all of its overabundance. They argue that we should be thankful every day of the year, and not just the second Monday in October. Well, I agree with that concept, but I think that most of us need a reminder to give thanks for all our blessings. The stat holiday helps us to do that, and to get together with family and friends for the occasion.

The cornucopia of food doesn’t have to be wasteful either. Not much goes to waste in this house. We have college students, hungry yuppies, barn kitties and farm dogs who will gladly take any leftovers (and usually in that order too).

We also live in the best country in the world, and arguably the best province in that country. Those of us who have lived elsewhere can testify to that truth. And for those who insist on raining our Thanksgiving parade, they can just stick a drumstick in it. I’m not listening.

For this we give thanks

2011-10-30T17:47:00.001-07:00

I am thankful to be big and healthy. I’m happy to be able to work at home, and blessed to be fed so well by my loving husband the Farmer and Head Cook, even when the contracts are not flowing in.

I am grateful for children who, after having moved out of the house, now consider me their friend. I’m the one they call on their day off, when they want to ‘just hang out’.

Last week for the Kemptville Kinsmen Farmers Market!

2011-10-06T18:00:00.000-07:00

Sunday is a busy day for us. When my father was sick in 2007, we began a weekly family dinner ritual that we continue today. It is a great opportunity to reconnect with family after a busy week. Most weeks we have 15 to 20 guests at Sunday dinner. This is why I didn’t make it to the Kemptville Kinsmen Farmers’ Market until a couple of weeks ago. I was just too darned busy.

But let’s face it. The Farmer is the chef at our house. All I have to do is clean house, set the table, make a salad and some appetizers, and then clean up after the event. I don’t really have to be in the kitchen Sunday afternoon. In fact, he prefers that I am not there. An invisible line exists between the kitchen island and the stove. No one is allowed into the cook’s area on Sundays.

For some reason, we ended up with far too many chickens in our freezers this year. We were brainstorming, the Farmer and I, about marketing our meat. I suggested the Farmers’ Market. Finally, I got to go. As a vendor at the Farmers’ Market, I didn’t have much opportunity to shop. I did a quick run-through, however, and I can report that the KKFM is very impressive this year. Vendors offer fresh fruits and vegetables, farm-raised chicken, turkey, beef, pork and lamb, as well as maple syrup, fudge, fresh flowers, jewellery and handicrafts. Don’t eat lunch before you go to the market. You will want to save your appetite so you can sample the Thai spring rolls, samosas, jams and chutney, homemade pizzas, pies and cookies.

The first week I was in attendance, a great blues vibe was permeating the scene. I thought someone had a really good CD on the speaker. Then I saw the singer. He was sitting at the end of the lane in the sunshine, playing his guitar and singing into the microphone. Wonderful! The next week, Doug Hendry and friends were playing Irish music on the fiddle and mandolin. In 30 degrees of Indian summer. Bless them.

We have a really good thing going here, at the Farmers’ Market. Check it out. You have just one more week! After Thanksgiving, it’s all over until next year.

Many Farmwife readers have stepped up to introduce themselves over the past few weeks. Thanks for that! It’s great to meet the people who are reading the stories. We have sold out of our Thanksgiving turkeys, thank you. Next year we will raise more. Some farmers tell me that turkeys are dumb and difficult to raise. I find them lovely. Granted, if you let them go free, they will run amok into coyote territory. The wild turkeys aren’t much help. More than once I have caught them whispering to the domestic turkeys through the chicken wire, telling them of life in the forest. When the turkeys do manage to escape from their area of the barn, however, they tend to go straight for the neighbours’ house. There, they climb up onto the porch, peek into the kitchen window and terrorize the show dogs.

The other night our daughter Paulina, who works in an Asian restaurant in Ottawa, was sent to the supermarket to select and buy a live lobster. She called me on the long walk back to the restaurant, obviously upset. ‘I can feel it moving in the bag!’ she said. I told her to thank the lobster, and to try not to think about it. I assured her that its end would come quickly and without suffering. I will do the same with the turkeys. I love them, with their gentle ways and their melodic gobbling. On October 5^th, I will gently tuck them in their cages, send them on holiday, and thank them for their contribution to our Thanksgiving Sunday dinner.

The great and noble steed, Donkey.

2011-09-29T11:46:00.000-07:00

Donkey, your grey is showing

2011-09-29T11:40:00.001-07:00

“I wonder how old Donkey is?” the Farmer mused one morning. He bought Donkey in 2007, just before we were married and I came to live at the farm. We don’t really have any idea of the animal’s true age. He is starting to look a little greyer, if that is possible. And he has some white whiskers around the nose.

The Farmer first got Donkey after a round of coyote attacks took a number of his sheep. After Donkey arrived and began creating strategically placed piles of manure around the property, the coyotes stayed away. For the next couple of years we had very few coyote kills. Then, in 2009, the Farmer bought me two Belgian horses for Valentines Day. Donkey thought it was The Arrival of the Supermodels. Tall and blonde, with attitude to spare, they led Donkey around the pasture by the nose. Suddenly distracted by and preoccupied with the horses, Donkey wasn’t hanging around the sheep any longer. The coyotes started attacking again. We decided to put the horses in with the sheep, so that Donkey could at least be in the appropriate location for doing his job. That resulted in Donkey teaching the horses a new game, called “chase and bite sheep until they make a funny noise”. This earned Donkey a weighted halter so that he couldn’t run after the sheep. The sheep-terrorizing ended.

In March 2009, we lost Ashley. It was a very traumatic experience for all of us. We let Misty sniff Ashley’s body so that she would know she was gone, but still for days afterward the big blonde horse would thunder up and down the pasture, tossing her mane and whinnying for her sister. Ashley had been the older sister, and the leader of the two horses. She went into the stable first, and answered her master’s call first. Misty was always the follower. And now she had lost her leader. About a week after Ashley’s death, Misty looked around and there he was: Donkey. Just like that, she made the little mischief-making ragamuffin her leader.

When Donkey went to the barn, Misty went to the barn. When Donkey went out to the pasture, Misty followed. When Donkey broke through the gate to eat my flowers and visit the neighbours in the front yard, Misty followed. She wouldn’t enter the stable without Donkey entering first. Donkey accepted his newfound celebrity with some bewilderment. The first few times I fed him hay in the stable, I had to convince him he was allowed to eat it. As the horse’s companion, he earned a heightened status on the farm. I could hear Donkey from Shrek: “she thinks I’m a noble steed...”

Together they have spent the past year and a half eating, sleeping, wandering the fields and rolling in the dirt, together. I watch them communicate telepathically. I don’t know what Misty would do without Donkey. There is nothing sadder than a lonely horse.

“I think Donkey is getting old. I don’t know if he could fight a coyote if he came across one,” the Farmer said. The other day Donkey was just lying in the middle of the field, asleep. That’s not like him. He usually stands to sleep.

I went out and called Donkey over to the fence. I waved a big red apple over my head and eagle eye saw it. But he didn’t come running, or trotting, and he definitely didn’t kick his feet up behind him as he would have a year ago. He wandered over, veeeerrry slowly. I fed him the apple and then surprised him with a plum. I gave him a good scratch between his huge velvet ears. I told him he was a good, good boy. Misty walked up to see what we were up to. She isn’t a fan of apples but took a bite anyway, just to share.

The next day, I heard thunder and whinnying. Misty was running up and down the field. When I called her, she stopped and stared down the pasture. I immediately thought of Donkey. Had he been bitten by a coyote? Was he just lying out there somewhere, all alone? I pulled on my pink rubber boots and started trotting down the field, huge horse on my tail. A couple of times she ran past me, too close for comfort. “Jeez Misty, watch it!” I yelled. Then I realized she was trying to herd me in. Suddenly she turned and kicked up her heels—twice—as she ran toward the barn. I guess she had heard something.

Upon entering the barn, I realized with relief that Donkey was not hurt. He was just being his mischievous self. He had broken the board that bars him from entering the sheep room. As Misty and I walked in, he snorted at us from his privileged position, chewing on hay that he had stolen from the storage.

I called him over, smacked him on the butt, and replaced the board with a hammer and two seriously bent nails. Misty whinnied and gave Donkey a little nip on the shoulder.

I’m glad the old boy is ok. And I think Misty is too.

The never-boring Farmwife life

2011-09-29T11:35:00.001-07:00

I was never so bored as when I lived in Taipei City, Taiwan. I’m one of those annoyingly optimistic morning people but I would wake up on a Saturday and think, ‘now what’?? Sure, I could go shopping or to the gym or the movies or an art show or a museum...but it was just observing. It wasn’t doing. It wasn’t living, as far as I was concerned. Now I live on a farm, and I enjoy every minute of my day because there is always something going on. Something real. Something fulfilling and exciting.

Many cityfolk imagine life on the farm to be uneventful and boring. This is not the case. Let me tell you about my week. First, I had to catch two of my barn cats and fast them overnight for their spay operation. I baited the cages and caught one relatively tame cat and one that was quite wild. All night long I could hear the wild cat, captive in the powder room. It repeatedly threw its body against the door in an attempt to get out. At one point I peeked in and it was scaling the side of the mirror. We were both up for most of the night. In the morning, I opened the door and it ran up my body, jumped over my head and scooted down the hall. I decided it was too stressful to deal with that cat, and I let it go.

The next day, I had to take our gentle-yet-dumb Gordon Setter and our extremely high-strung Border Collie to the municipal rabies clinic. I hung a sheet in the Explorer between the back seat and the cargo area so the two dogs couldn’t see each other. They could smell and hear each other of course, so that just drove them nuts. The anxiety had the fur flying and my car was covered in an inch of dog hair by the time we drove the 15 minutes to town. Once at the clinic, Andy Parent (animal control officer) came out and helped me to muzzle Chelsea so that the vet could give her the shot. I am still amazed that I accomplished this entire feat with no one being bitten and I didn’t have to drive with a wild dog on my head.

On Thursday night, we were informed that our bull was on its way home from the farm where it had been doing its summer breeding. When Dennis the drover backed the cattle truck up to the fence, the cows all started running toward the gate, bawling and mooing. They knew someone was either comin’ or goin’. Young Angus hopped out of the truck onto the ground and cautiously entered the barnyard. It took him about 5 minutes to realize he was home. The last time I saw him, he was standing in the middle of the pasture, surrounded by his four wives and four children.

Saturday, our middle daughter announced her engagement to her longtime beau. This is exciting news for everyone in our family, though we aren’t really surprised. And we went to my high school reunion Saturday evening. On Sunday, we were brought back down to Earth when the Farmer discovered that a coyote had killed another of our lambs.

Sunday afternoon I met many readers of this column at the Kemptville Farmers’ Market. Thanks for taking the time to stop by and say hello. It has been a good week. Full, and eventful, and worth waking up for. Every single morning.

Mocha's sweet tooth brings trouble

2011-09-16T14:25:00.000-07:00

If one of our cows breaks out of the fenced pasture, the rest of the group start bawling and mooing until the escapee returns. We sleep with a fan on at the other side of the house, so we don’t hear much barnyard activity at night. Our neighbours, however, have a front row seat to the excitement. At 2 in the morning, the runaway cow was in their back yard.

All of the noise had Julie thinking that one of the cows was being attacked. The mooing and moaning continued intermittently throughout the wee hours of the morning, probably eliciting a stream of nightmares for our neighbours. Finally, at 7am, Julie called to tell me that one of our bulls was in her yard. I assured her that we didn’t have a bull on the farm right now so not to worry—and the one we had was a big pussycat anyway—but I would be right over.

The Farmer and I jumped into our farm gear and he headed out the driveway while I went through the barnyard to shut off the electric fence. Julie and the Farmer cornered the cow who turned out to be Mocha, our tame three-year-old. I grabbed a bucket of sweet feed, opened the gate and shook the grain, calling the cow’s name. Her head popped up from the long grass and she came bounding over the meadow like a pup. Soon she was back in the barnyard, happily snarfing down her reward. The Farmer just shook his head.

On my way back through the stable barn that acts as a gateway to the barnyard, I found a huge fresh cowplop. Mocha had obviously been trying to return to the barnyard on her own during the night. I argued in her defense that she wasn’t such a bad cow after all.

The Farmer grumbled that he would have to walk the perimeter of the cow pasture before work, to find the spot where Mocha broke through the electric fence. He found it, at the very back corner of the three fields that we have sectioned off for the cows. In an attempt to reach a fragrant apple tree heavy with fruit on the other side of the barrier, Mocha had crushed the fence against the live wire, thus rendering it ineffective. Then she had gingerly stepped over it and feasted on the apples. After her snack, she probably wasn’t sure how to re-enter the field so she had followed a path through the forest, up along the side of the pasture toward the road. There she had entered the neighbours’ property, probably sending all of their various exotic showdogs into a barking frenzy.

The Farmer did a quick repair of the fence, with the plan to return and fix it properly on the weekend.

The next day we got another call. Mocha was in the front field again, next to the neighbours’ house. She appeared to be eating something on the ground beside the silage bales. Apples. The perfume had attracted her to her new favourite treat.

“If this cow cannot stay inside an electric fence, we will have to sell her,” the Farmer warned. We both felt bad that the cow kept disturbing the neighbours. It’s a good thing that Julie still finds the farm animals “enchanting”, because she often discovers a wandering bovine, Donkey or turkey in her yard.

Mocha is my favourite cow. I hate to think of her going to market so soon. I had planned to keep her for years, allowing her to contribute to the propagation of our growing herd. “Maybe we just need to re-do the wire to move it farther away from the fence,” I suggested. “And the apples will all be gone soon anyway.” If we put up a bale of whiskey-scented silage in the cow’s feeder I’m sure Mocha will stay home.

-30-

Summer drifts out on the sunset

2011-09-13T12:04:00.000-07:00

“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.” ~Albert Camus

The flowerbeds that I was stressing over a month ago are now bursting at the edgings with hosta and sedums, chrysanthemums and lavatera. Even the weeds look good. But then, is there such a thing as a weed? I think they’re all just wildflowers gone astray. Unsolicited sowings.

Now that autumn is almost here, I am going to take a brave shovel to my cramped perennials and split them. I’m going to move them around to give them more space, and then I’m going to dump heaps of composted sheep manure around each planting to keep the weeds down. That’s my plan. I love nothing more in the fall than to move plants and rocks around. It gives me a true sense of satisfaction. And those heavy wheelbarrow loads do wonders for the arm muscles.

For those of you who are mourning the end of summer, consider this. In September, you can actually get into the garden without fear of being carried off by a swarm of mosquitoes. The soft, refracted rays of the sun carry plenty of vitamin D with far less danger of sunburn or heat stroke. The evening breezes are much more conducive to a good night’s sleep. I love the fall.

Everyone seems to have more energy in autumn. Business picks up again, and it’s a new year for students at every level. Families are shape-shifting as little ones go to kindergarten for the first time and high school graduates head off into the real world to find their own way. It’s a season of change and new beginnings. In many ways it is even more invigorating than spring time.

For the farm animals, fall must be their favourite season. There are less bugs and the midday sun doesn’t send them running to the cool mud of the barn. The sheep and cattle wallow in the breeze, sometimes lying down to eat, Roman-style.

My holiday-bearded, sun-bronzed Farmer has morphed into a clean-cut university professor again and I am left to do the morning chores on my own, for the most part. After feeding my cats and checking on Rambo in his lock-up I love to wrap a blanket around my shoulders and sit on the back porch as I sip my green tea, watching the sheep on their diagonal path to pasture before I start my day at the computer.

The freezers are full of free-run chickens (email me if you want some!), and the turkeys (named Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving) are almost ready to head off “on holiday” themselves. Tomatoes litter the ground of our garden and we have potatoes, carrots, parsnips and beets to dry and put away for Sunday dinners to come. The Farmer (Head Farm Chef) and I will fight over the tomatoes, as he wants them for spaghetti sauce and I want them for fresh salsa.

We are so busy this time of year; it makes me wonder what we do all winter. We will experience a momentary lull between Thanksgiving and Easter, when no lambs are born (well, there might be a couple) and the only real farming activity will be keeping feeders full of hay and water troughs free of ice. I’m looking forward to that quiet too, as I have a book to finish.

Dad would have been 70 years old this weekend. That’s really hard to believe. He always used to say he wasn’t going back to teaching until his birthday had past. That worked out for him most years; not all. I’m sure he will be present in spirit as we roam the halls of our alma mater one last time at the North Grenville District High School reunion on September 17^th. I’m looking forward to seeing many of you there.

Life is meant for living

2011-09-13T12:02:00.001-07:00

The Farmer finished up his holidays by watering a stone. He was watering the stone to loosen it from the ground so that he could pick it out and move it from the front lawn. Problem is, the stone is like an iceberg. The part you can see is only a fraction of what lies beneath. That’s one of the things I love about my husband. He is curious, and he likes a challenge. At least he doesn’t get bored and start asking me to entertain him. Nope, he can entertain himself just fine.

I didn’t have such a great week. I decided to try one of those herbal detox pills that is supposed to help you lose a little bit of water weight, while cleansing your insides a bit at the same time. High school reunion coming up and all, you know. After just one dose, I began to question my judgment. Went to the computer and googled the thing. All the reviews were positive, but they did warn against side effects. After the second full day of suffering, feeling as though my insides were slowly being liquefied, I was feeling pretty sheepish for worrying about my weight enough to try something that was obviously unsafe. And then I spoke to someone else who said that my symptoms were very typical reactions to detoxification. So I wasn’t so dumb after all. But I decided the one dose was enough for me. I think I’ll stay toxic for now, until advised otherwise by a medical professional. Oh well. I shouldn’t be so hard on the old bod. At least she’s healthy.

Which is more than I can say for one of our old ewes. This girl is solid, but her girth can work against her. She toppled over on her back—and I don’t know which event happened first but at some point she was bitten on the face, probably by a coyote. The Farmer first noticed the turkey vultures circling overhead. That is never a good sign. He later found the ewe belly-up, spindly feet kicking the air, and had to slowly roll her back over and wait until her insides settled before he could lift her up onto the trailer and move her to a safe pen in the barn for recovery. I went to see her shortly afterwards. Her face and neck were swollen, her body was still slightly lopsided from the tumble, and she had a rather traumatized look in her eye. I can just imagine what was going through her head as she lay on her back, helpless, watching the vultures circling over her, waiting. Hopefully she couldn’t see or hear them. Now I go into the barn twice a day to feed her sweet grain while spraying her wounds with antiseptic. She will be ok.

Our little lamb is not ok. At three weeks of age, we have lost the little guy who went to cottage with us—the lamb who depended on me as his only source of food. I did the best I could to replace his mother and he appeared so strong—running over the field, scooting under the fence and up onto the back porch of the house, calling to me—but he didn’t make it. It’s been a rough week.

I only lost 3 pounds on that detox diet and I’m pretty sure the eating and drinking at our 4^th Annual Fisher Farm Party will put that weight back on. But that’s okay. Life is meant for living.

2011-08-22T10:56:00.000-07:00

Lamb-baby goes to the cottage

2011-08-22T10:52:00.001-07:00

The Professor has been on vacation for a week but the Farmer has been working like a dog. I’m not sure why he uses that particular expression—he must be referring to the sheepdog and not our lazy watchdog. Anyway, in order to get the Farmer to relax while on vacation, I must spirit him away from the farm.

We were invited to my sister’s fiance’s cottage in Quebec for a few days. This is a great idea. We don’t have to spend a lot of time planning and packing camping equipment and food. We just throw some clothes in a bag and drive for a couple of hours.

Our only problem was we had a lamb born two weeks ago, and the mother won’t feed it. That lamb-baby is more mine than the ewe’s, because I am the one who mixes bottles of milk replacer, offers it words of encouragement and scratches its back while it feeds. I even know the sound of its call. I can pick it out of dozens of other lambs calling from the barn. It needs me. So we had to bring it to the cottage with us.

On the morning of our trip, I packed everything in the truck, then brought some old ripped sheets and blankets up from the basement. A lamb on a completely liquid diet makes quite a mess. When we were just about ready to hit the road, I scooped the lamb up from its pen in the barn, fed it the rest of its bottle and gently shoved it into a dog carrier that I had put in the back of the Explorer. The lamb baaaed as it skated around the plastic floor of the carrier on its high heeled hooves. I opened the crate door and pushed one of the towels in there with him. Finding traction, he settled down for a nap and off we went.

We chatted on our drive, my Farmer and I. I also sang along to the radio. I noticed that the lamb cried when I was quiet for more than a few minutes so I made a point of saying something every once in a while. I’m sure the Farmer is worried I am becoming too attached to this lamb.

At the cottage, my animal-loving sister had already set up a corral of doggy gates (she owns two large Basset Hounds) within a screened dining tent. I set the lamb crate down inside this corral and tied the bottle brace to the side. There. Quite a nice set up, at the top of the hill, overlooking the lake. There was even a lovely breeze just there, under the pine trees.

I went into the cottage and set up the blender to make my lamb some more milk. The blender dial must have been jostled on our ride, because it was turned to “on”. I didn’t notice this until about one second after I plugged the thing in—without first putting the lid on it. That corner of the cottage kitchen is now extremely clean.

Everything went quite well during the day on our cottage visit; the hounds spent much of their time nose-to-nose with the lamb, keeping it company. A bottle of milk replacer was strapped to the side of the corral so the lamb could feed on demand. But when night fell, it was a different story.

Lambs hate to be alone. When the dogs retreated to their beds for the night and the loons began to call over the lake, the lamb started to cry for his mama. And his brother. And his aunt and uncle. The Farmer suggested we do what he did when he adopted a puppy that wouldn’t stop crying. Feed it, make it a nice bed, and lock it in the back of the truck. So that’s what I did. It seemed cruel and neglectful to me at first, but I could see the lamb settling down right away in its cozy space. In the morning, I brought it back out to the corral again.

All in all, it was a successful outing. The Farmer and I had a nice break, we have good tans and we both managed to finish our books. The only problem is I now have a lamb who calls for me from the barnyard, thinking I’m its mother.

Farmer, get your gun.

2011-08-14T08:21:00.001-07:00

There aren’t too many things that would make me want to give up sheep farming. I’ve only wanted to quit a couple of times so far. I wanted to throw in the towel during my first winter lambing season, when every second lamb born, died. It was just too cold for them and they didn’t make it. I bottle-fed the ones that didn’t seem to be getting enough of their mothers’ milk but they just weren’t strong enough.

The only other time I remember thinking, ‘that’s it! I quit!’ was just the other night. I was doing the nightly check on things, making sure the new lambs were ok, the chickens had enough water and the turkeys were still in their pen. A gathering noise outside drew my attention to the far side of the barn. Sheep noise.

Instead of settling down for the night against the wall of the barn, the sheep were all standing in the spotlight, staring down the field. I grabbed my flashlight, hopped over the gate and went to see what they were looking—and hollering—at.

I saw two sets of eyes, one considerably taller than the other. Donkey and Misty. At their feet, another set of eyes blinked at me from the grass. A lamb was down.

The horse and donkey were flanking the lamb as if protecting her from something. I swung my flashlight around at the darkness but saw nothing.

Upon inspection, the lamb appeared to have at least one bloody foot. I wondered if a coyote had bitten her in a failed abduction, or if the big horse had accidentally hobbled her. I couldn’t leave her there in the field; we had had too many coyote kills lately and I knew he was probably watching from the wings, waiting for us to leave his snack untended.

The lamb looked small enough, so I squatted down, put my arms around her and lifted her up. Ugh. She was heavier than she looked. I panted my way to the barn, donkey and horse on my heels. My breathing was scaring the other sheep out of my way, and the flock parted like the red sea as I staggered to the lambing pen. We had a gate wired across the open door in summer, so I had to gently plop the lamb down on the inside before running around through the other barn door to meet her. I kept thinking that a coyote was waiting for me to leave my lamb alone for a moment so he could scoop her up and spirit her away.

Once inside the lambing room, I had to lift the lamb again to lower her into the lambing pen. I noticed that she hadn’t moved a muscle since I first discovered her. She was using her only line of defense (besides stomping feet). She was playing dead. I told her she was safe now, and the mother of the new twin lambs came over to inspect her. That’s when I noticed that the blood was not coming from her foot at all. It was coming from her neck.

The Farmer had told me that when a coyote kills a lamb, it rips its throat out. Sometimes a sentry animal like Donkey will scare the coyote away, but it usually comes back later to collect its meal. I worried that the coyote would come to the barn to get my lamb at night. I have heard of farmers finding coyotes in their barns, but the ones on our property rarely make it all the way up to the barnyard. This one had been within 50 metres of the fence.

I parted the wool around the lamb’s neck and found some tiny insertion points, like vampire bites. The bleeding had stopped. The Farmer gave her a shot of penicillin, and we will watch her closely. When I left her for the night, she was cuddled in to sleep beside the ewe, having eaten her fill of sweet hay.

We have had six coyote kills this year. Normally we leave the coyotes alone to hunt mice in the back fields, and they leave our sheep alone. Donkey keeps them away from the herd. But this is getting ridiculous. We may have to call in some of the Farmer’s hunting buddies to get rid of this fearless predator.

Rambo's sneaky little trick

2011-08-08T07:46:00.001-07:00

Our rams, left to their own devices and sense of seasonal timing, always want to begin the mating rituals when the weather turns cooler in early August. As soon as we catch them in this annual dance, we lure them into the barn and lock them up in a pen until December. If we don’t, we’ll have full-on lambing season in January–February. And trust me, that sucks.

Lambing season in February is freezing cold and depressing. The lambs are so busy fighting the cold that if they aren’t the strongest of the bunch, they don’t make it. Also, as sheep farmers we are wise to stay home during lambing season. That makes it very difficult to take a vacation on the university reading week if we’ve got “lambs on the ground” in February.

We always miss the first couple of “dances” in August, however, before we catch the rams and put them away. As a result, we always end up with a few lambs in the barn in the middle of winter. If we’re lucky, they are born during the Christmas holidays, when it isn’t quite as frigid yet.

Ideally, we have lambing season orchestrated to happen in April through May. But the ram decided to play a trick on us this year, and impregnated a ewe in April (must have been one of the ones who gave birth at Christmas—or didn’t get asked to dance at all last winter). The other day the Farmer noticed a ewe with a particularly bulging udder. Sure enough, yesterday morning, we heard the unmistakable sound of a newborn lamb crying for its mother. The little one was standing outside the barn, near Chelsea’s doghouse. He appeared to be attempting to communicate with the sheepdog.

The Farmer and I looked around for the ewe. The rest of the herd was already down in the pasture. Eventually the new mama was found in the barn, where she was attempting with great difficulty to give birth to another lamb.

The Farmer, who was already in his university professor garb (save the rubber footwear), squatted down in his dress pants and reached up inside the ewe to deliver the lamb. I kept thinking thank goodness it’s short sleeve season. That at least might save his shirt.

A few agonizing minutes later he was still groping around in the ewe, attempting to reposition the surprisingly large lamb so that he could deliver it. Sweat was pouring down his face from the effort. The first lamb settled down in front of his mother’s nose, in silent reverence. The ewe bore down and grunted with discomfort. I held her head still so she wouldn’t try to get up. I also held my breath, I think.

Finally, my husband delivered the forelegs and gave a gentle tug. The lamb slid out onto the barn floor, looked up at us and blinked.

“It’s alive!” I shouted.

“That’s amazing,” the Farmer agreed.

The lamb probably suffered some oxygen deprivation while stuck in the birth canal but hopefully we got it out in time so the damage may not be permanent.

I actually managed to milk that ewe so that I could feed 50 mls of the valuable colostrum to the lamb. It had a strong sucking reflex, which is good. Typically the weak lambs just loll their tongues around and don’t take a bottle very well.

Later that first day the weak lamb greeted me when I entered the pen. He tried in vain to gather his limbs under him to stand. He took another 20 mls colostrum but I didn’t think he’d make it if I couldn’t get him to get up.

This morning, the lamb was on his feet. The Farmer gave it a shot of vitamins and selenium, and advised me to mix a bottle of milk replacer. Again the lamb greeted me as I entered the pen. He was lying in a corner by himself. His mother seems to be trying not to get too attached to him, which is often the case with sickly animals.

The lamb took the bottle with a suction that was quite impressive. He drank 350 mls of the stuff! Then he stood for just a moment, all by himself. He may make it after all.

I hope the Farmer doesn’t take this mid-season miracle to mean he can have our ewes giving birth twice a year. And just to be sure, I’m putting a calendar on the wall of the barn so Rambo doesn’t forget what month it is, and when he is supposed to be doing his business.

-30-

and then there were three! kittens ready to adopt. call 613-258-1057 if you want to make an appointment!

2011-08-04T13:54:00.000-07:00

How to deal with a bumper crop. Of kittens.

2011-08-03T11:26:00.000-07:00

I’m sure by now you people are tired of reading about my cats. Well, I will try to make this the last cat story for a while. Just think of this as a wrap-up to the cat season.

On April 1^st, our tame calico Penelope gave birth to 4 kittens. For the next month, her 9 sisters and cousins gave birth to their own litters. Not all of them lived. Some were just too little and didn’t survive. But by the middle of May, we had about 40 new, healthy kittens on the farm. It was a bumper crop, to be sure.

Now, most farmers will tell you that the feral barn cat is an absolute necessity on the farm. They control the rodent population, particularly when grain is being stored in the barn. Most barns have at least two or three cats on site. Larger farms need 6 to a dozen cats to get the job done.

Typically, the cats are fed once in the morning, and that’s it for the day. The farmer doesn’t necessarily measure out an exact half cup of feed per cat. He just puts one big bowl down and if they miss chow time, tough for them. Fights occasionally break out, and dominance is asserted. Males reaching adulthood have to prove their superiority, or they are quickly run off the farm by the resident alpha male. Mother cats just keep having kittens, sometimes two litters in a summer season, until they are worn out from childbirth and nursing. Kittens born in the colder months rarely last until springtime. Many get viruses that, left untreated, spread and wipe out the younger farm cat generation. Some people call this survival of the fittest. I call it depressing.

Before I arrived on the farm scene in 2007, my Farmer’s cat population was “managing itself”, by the aforementioned processes. But when I saw the first kitten stagger past me with infected eyes, I put gloves on and caught the scrappy little thing. I administered Polysporin eye drops and homeopathic respiratory remedies. When that didn’t work, I smuggled the cat to the vet. Yes, I know I was going against the typical farm system, but I couldn’t bear to see that kitten suffer. Two hundred dollars later, I had antibiotics to cure my kitten. He is now the large orange alpha male in our barn, and the main source of my kitty problems. The Farmer said he told me so. I interfered with nature and look what happened.

So? What to do. Those kittens are now my responsibility. I allowed them to be born. I took care of my 40 new kittens, their eye infections and their stuffy noses. I took one of them to the vet and shared his medicine with everyone else until they were all better. But 40 kittens, plus the 10 prolific mamas and handful of adult males we have on the farm are too many, even for a crazy cat lady.

After the kittens had passed the 8-week stage where they could be weaned, I put an ad on www.kijiji.ca. In the first week, 18 kittens were adopted out to what I determined to be loving homes. The adopters discussed plans and even provided appointment dates for getting their kittens immunized and eventually spayed. This made me feel good.

After another couple of weeks, 10 more kittens were picked up. Now it’s August and I’ve got just 7 kittens left. Three are in the “taming room” in the basement and 4 still roam the barn, too big and wise now to be lured into my cat carrier. Two adolescent males were shipped off to live on a new farm. I am still trying to catch the dominant orange male. The Papa Garfield. Big Daddy of them all. Of course, catching and finding homes for my surplus cats isn’t going to solve my problem. I realize this, so you can stop writing that email to me right now, cat activists. I know I have to get them all fixed. The problem is the cost, not the ideal, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t have $2,000 to throw around. Maybe when I sell my Farmwife book I can put part of the profits toward the cat situation. But in the meantime, it would be really nice if the municipality, along with some local veterinarians, would pitch in and help to solve this problem. I’m sure I’m not the only farmer in the area with a bumper crop of kittens this year. Or am I?

My Chip-In Widget

2011-08-03T11:18:00.001-07:00

A wedding with a Muslim touch

2011-07-27T13:34:00.001-07:00

We rushed through our farm chores Saturday so we could get ready for the wedding of a friend’s daughter. The event took place in the garden of their sprawling Kemptville property. The bride, dressed in a simple strapless white-and-ivory banded gown (from J.Crew online) was marrying a Muslim man in a simple dark suit, in a non-denominational ceremony with very simple vows. The bridal party consisted of the groom, best man, bride and man of honour, for a change. The officiator begins by prompting the groom to propose marriage to his beloved. Then the bride answers, “I wed myself to you, promise to love and honor and be faithful to you and to support our children, and grandchildren, for the rest of my life.” The groom repeats that he will do the same. Ten minutes and it was all done. Which is a good thing because just then the overcast sky cleared and a blistering sun began beating down on all of us. Then it was time for the party. While the bridal group took wedding photos among the lilies and hostas in the garden, we were treated to lavender-infused gin-and-lemonade cocktails. Some of us found our way around the back of the house to the washroom-on-wheels, which was a treat in itself. You climb up a set of stairs to enter a lovely air-conditioned bathroom equipped with fresh, fragrant flowers, hair spray, breath mints, hand cream and anything else you might need to freshen yourself up a bit. I stayed in there as long as politely possible. When I reluctantly opened the door to re-enter the oppressive heat, a small group of my friends was standing there looking at me, perturbed. Those washrooms saw a lot of action that night, as the heat continued until well after dark.

Dinner was created and served by Epicurea, an Ottawa caterer, in a tent decorated in crisp white linens and perfumed lilies and roses. Interestingly, the bride and groom were seated at their own tiny table for two at the front of the tent. I impressed myself by eating blue cheese for the first time, but some of the farmer types at my table didn’t touch their antipasto plate at all. After a wonderful chicken dinner, each key person in the celebration delivered a short, sweet speech. The theme of less-is-more was refreshing and authentic. Dancing followed dessert, and the bride and groom danced their traditional first dance as husband and wife. After that, the father of the bride danced with his daughter. Sniff. Then the couple disappeared for a few minutes, to change out of their formal wedding clothes. As the music continued, I felt it was time to let the hair down, kick the shoes off and dance to a few Middle Eastern-fusion tunes with friends. One hand in the air screws in the lightbulb, other hand down low pats the dog, slowly turn in a circle and rise up on one toe, like a funky whirling dervish. That’s how I learned to dance in Asia. Soon I had everyone doing it.

Then with a unique cultural twist, a troupe of belly dancers, one with a lit candlebra on her headdress, led the newly married couple back into the tent. We were treated to a series of traditional ethnic dance numbers, much to our collective delight. It was an honour to be invited to such a special event. I love weddings. And after all that whirling, I burned enough calories that I didn’t have to go for my 5-k walk the next morning.

Penelope's last litter

2011-07-27T13:33:00.000-07:00

Penelope's Life-Changing Day

2011-07-27T13:30:00.001-07:00

While the life of the average house cat may be long and leisurely, the life of a barn cat can be short and difficult. One way to improve the health and prolong the life of a female barn cat is to have her spayed so she doesn’t have to have any more kittens. Wednesday was Penelope’s lucky day.

Penelope was born three years ago (I think, from my photo album research), during my first summer as a Farmwife. She looks like a calico, but instead of orange, black and white markings, she has grey, peach and white colouring, making her what is known as a Dilute Calico.

This cat is probably the least feral of all of our barn cats. Since she was born, she has always been fonder of the humans than of the other cats. While most barn cats rub and nuzzle against each other, Penelope saves her lovin’ for the people. If I put my hand down to pet her, she arches her back and does a little hop up to reach me. This dance is repeated over and over, until one of us gets tired (usually me; not the cat).

Penelope also prefers to be fed separately from the other cats. She seems to be very worried about sharing a platter of feed with the others, and they usually respond to her nervous approach with a clawed swat to her nose. Penelope hops up onto the closest piece of barn furniture and I feed her there. I figured Penelope would be easy enough to catch, in comparison to our other mamas.

Tuesday evening, I lured Penelope into a cat carrier with Temptations cat treats. She didn’t even blink as I gently pushed her tail inside and latched the door. When she ran out of treats, however, it was another story. She rocked and rolled that carrier until it popped open at the plastic hinges. She pushed the lid to the side, crawled out and came and sat by my feet, looking up at me and demanding more cat treats.

I sighed. Clearly I needed a stronger cage. I crawled up into the stable loft and found the dog carrier that was double the size and strength of the cat carrier. It was held together with bolts instead of plastic hinges. But could I get her into a cage again?

It took a bit of coaxing but eventually Penelope was successfully lured into the cage. They don’t call them Temptation cat treats for nothing.

I drove the cat to the cat shelter in North Gower, where Penelope was scheduled to stay the night. Her cat treats would be the last food she would have until after her surgery the next day.

Early Wednesday morning, Penelope was delivered to the Riverside South Animal Hospital. There she entered into the Trap-Neuter-Return program for feral cats.

Surgery was scheduled for the morning, and I received a call when she woke up from her sedative, at about 3 in the afternoon. The patient was ready for pickup.

As a feral cat, Penelope was given a slow-release antibiotic and pain killer to facilitate recovery. She spent the first 24 hours in the house. I went down to the basement before bed and couldn’t find her amongst the stored furniture. I got a flashlight and finally I spotted her eyes flashing at me from inside the dollhouse. When she emerged from the basement the next day to wander the house, howling at every window and door, I knew she was ready to return outside.

Many thanks to Paul Lafleur of Village Kitten Rescue in North Gower (www.vkrkittens.com) and Dr. Dennett of the Riverside South Animal Hospital for everything. That’s one less mama cat I have to worry about. Now, who’s next?

Summer golf and giving hearts

2011-07-27T13:29:00.001-07:00

Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

~ Robert Louis Stevenson

We have had three absolutely perfect summer days in a row. 27 degrees under a cloudless sky, with a cool breeze blowing. Country folk just have to open all their windows and let it blow on through. No need for air conditioning. These are good days if you are on holiday, and even better if you need to do some work outside.

Many farmers are getting the last of their hay in now. No one minds working a long day outside in this weather. As I pull weeds and flick potato bugs in my garden, I notice that the breeze keeps the bugs at bay while the sun warms my shoulders.

The horse spends most of her summer days in the cool of the barn. If I go into the barn to do something she will often follow me out, thinking I might let her into the stable. Of course she prefers it there, because there aren’t many flies and hay and water are also available for the lazy girl. But I don’t look forward to mucking out stalls in this heat so I try to keep her outside for the most part.

Misty will be inside less than a minute before she starts complaining that Donkey is not with her. She will whinny loudly at him until he appears outside the stable door, pushing it with his nose to get in. If I’m weeding the garden, he ignores her, choosing instead to stand at the fence where I throw the fresh green weeds.

The Farmer spends his days mending fences and farming equipment, taking advantage of the more temperate weather to get some of the heavier work done.

The Carol Durie Memorial Golf Tournament was a huge success last Friday. Carol’s former students, both from school and the equestrian field came to celebrate her memory by raising money for a good cause. At the end of the day, $60,000 had been raised for the Mammography Unit at the Kemptville District Hospital. Harry Pratt came through on his vow to have his hair dyed pink if he raised $2,000 in pledges. Following the day of golf, he celebrated by having his head shaved.

The other bald heads in the group were the organizers of the event: Pat Poirier, Dean Tataryn, Mark Hyndman, Pete Johnston and Carol’s son, Todd Durie. They were more than happy to have their heads shaved, as they have been sporting mullets for the past few weeks, in memory of their favourite teacher of the 1980s.

The speeches were very moving; at times there were more teary eyes than dry ones in the room. The biggest applause went to Carol’s grandson, who raised $500 with a lemonade stand.

Harry Pratt spoke about the men who first banded together to raise money to build Kemptville District Hospital, in the late 1950s. Norm Goldberg (father of Bob Perry) worked alongside Jackson Flay to raise a quarter million dollars in ten days! The grandchildren of these KDH founders, Jim Perry and Jackie (Flay) Dillabaugh, were on hand to celebrate Carol Durie’s memory and to raise money for a worthy cause on Friday.

The event was titled “The 1^st Annual” Carol Durie Memorial Golf Tournament but organizers have not yet decided whether they will hold the event next year. It’s kind of like having a baby. You put so much work into it; people shouldn’t ask you about the next one for at least 6 months.

In any case, the day is one that will be remembered by all in attendance for quite some time. Here’s to you, Carol. Your memory lives on in the hearts and minds of your students, family and friends.

How to tame a feral kitten

2011-07-04T11:53:00.001-07:00

I have too many kittens in my barn. I need to adopt some of them out and get the rest spayed or neutered. Here’s the problem. They’re wilder than Tarzan’s ape. Lucky for me,

you can learn how to do almost anything on the Internet. I googled “how to tame a feral kitten” and found some good advice.

My kittens look tame enough. They sit there all doe-eyed, fluffy and innocent looking, until you get close enough to touch. Then they either dart off to freedom or, if backed into a corner, they become a hissing, spitting ball of fur, claws and razor-sharp teeth. I have learned that if you wear rubberized gardening gloves, a long-sleeved shirt and a modicum of bravery however, you can sneak up on the little fur balls while they are eating or sleeping and quickly stuff them into a waiting cat carrier.

I feel a bit like the scary old man on the movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, who drove around with a cage full of children that he had kidnapped. I go into the barn and come out with a cage full of mewing kittens. The adult cats just stare at me. I wonder if they are thinking, “Oh thank goodness, I don’t have to feed them anymore,” or if they are really worried about where I am taking their babies. In any case, they don’t seem to have much of a reaction.

According to the advisory page that I found on the Internet, I am to enclose the kittens in a small room. I normally use the small powder room as a cat holding pen when I’m treating them for illnesses. But this is going to be a slightly longer term operation and I can’t afford to give up my guest bathroom. The last kid who moved out better not be planning to move back in any time soon, because I just gave up her basement bedroom to my kitty cats.

Once inside the room, you open the door to the cat carrier but don’t attempt to pull the kittens out. They will come out when they are good and ready. I put them in there a couple of hours ago and two are still in the carrier. I turned the carrier so they can see the other kittens going to the water and food. Hopefully that will entice them to venture out.

Although I removed all but one covered futon from the room, I gave the kittens plenty of places to hide. None of these places are out of my reach, however, so I can catch them if need be. Two of the kittens still have the eye infections that many barn kitties get. I need to be able to catch and treat them. It will be much easier now that they are in a room and cannot get away from me.

Apparently I am not to attempt to touch the wildest of the feral kitties for the first couple of days. I can go into their room, sit amongst them and cuddle the more tame kittens. I can put a small towel over one of the timid kittens, pull it into my lap and pet it until it gets used to me, but I cannot go chasing the kittens that are hiding. If I have to catch one for any reason, I must bring my arm around behind them because they perceive an approaching hand as a threat. Also, I must not make too much eye contact. Kittens prefer it if you avert your eyes. That is less threatening to them.

They have a kitty litter station, a bubbling self-watering bowl and a continuous supply of kitty food. I have scattered “toys” (anything that scoots or rolls across the floor when batted with a paw) over the floor and padded the various boxes, carriers and futon with soft, worn towels. It’s kitty heaven down there. I hope they appreciate it. The goal is to get them all tame, so I can adopt them out to good homes. And yes, the Farmer is wondering why his Farmwife has suddenly turned into the Crazy Cat Lady of O’Neill Road.

-30-

They've only just begun

2011-07-04T11:51:00.000-07:00

“...so many roads to choose. We’ll start out walkin’ and learn to run...and yes, we’ve just begun...” The Carpenters

The countdown is on. In just a few nights, my daughter graduates from high school. I have been feeling rather weepy and discombobulated about the whole thing. My daughter knows this. And so what does she do about it? She takes advantage of my moment of weakness and, for the first time in her teenaged years, asks us to do something for her. She asks us to host the After-Grad Party at the farm. Oi-vay.

How do we say no? That’s right. We don’t. We are somewhat honoured to have been asked. We say yes. But not right away. First, we called friends who had hosted after-grad in previous years. We got advice on how to orchestrate the whole event so that a good time is had by all, and everyone gets home safely. Mostly it’s about collecting car keys, parking cars where they cannot be easily retrieved (i.e. in the grazing pasture of a biting donkey and a charging ram) and setting up tents. Lots of tents.

I have enlisted the help of a few of the other parents of graduates, in case I need drivers to transport partiers to their homes. For most of the evening, I imagine we will be sitting on the screened-in porch, not exactly eavesdropping on the festivities but definitely keeping an ear out for trouble. But I don’t think we really have much to worry about. We have a smart bunch of kids graduating this year. Actually, this generation seems to be much better at planning ahead and thinking things through than, for example, their parents were at the same age.

I will be getting the Farmer to reinforce the gates to the barnyard so that no revelers end up on the manure side of the fence in the dark. I don’t want anyone getting stepped on by a horse – or attempting to ride her.

Paulina has asked some friends to come over to help set up on Wednesday morning. By the time this column is in print, the dance floor will be built, the tent over the dance floor will be erected, the porta-pottie will be in place and the firewood will be neatly stacked next to the bonfire pit. Tiki torches will be installed around the yard and strings of lights will be hung from the trees to keep party guests from wandering into the stinging nettle in the dark.

The graduating class of 2011 has compiled lists of music requests, and Paulina has spent the better part of a week downloading songs. I suggested we set up a karaoke machine. I don’t think she heard me. The kids (can I still call them that?) have their own ideas about how to celebrate the end of their high school careers.

In order to recognize certain students’ unique contributions to high school life, awards will be presented. I imagine they will bear the titles: Best Dressed; Drama Queen; Teacher’s Pet; Class Clown, etc. But I could be wrong. They have their own special memories, their own achievements to celebrate, their own shared experiences to commemorate at their 2011 After-Grad Oscars. This is their night. We are just the ones honoured to be hosting for them, giving them a safe place to celebrate friendships, the end of one phase of their lives and the beginning of the next.

I just hope Paulina gets home from Wonderland in time to help me set up those tiki torches or the Farmer is going to be grumpy.

Happiness is a new nest

2011-07-04T11:48:00.001-07:00

If you want to make a bunch of chickens happy, spread new hay on the floor of their chicken coop. Don’t just run in there and dump a load of hay in front of them, however, or some of them will have heart attacks and keel over. Speak in an even tone as you slowly enter the room, pitchfork of hay in hand. Then softly and gently spread the hay around the floor, taking care to cover the particularly wet spots around the water feeder. Chickens hate getting wet. But they can ruin a layer of hay in about a day with their manure so you will likely have to come back again tomorrow with another load.

The chickens’ propensity for heart attacks is just one reason why I prefer turkeys. Chickens also peck your feet and hands when you are trying to fill up their feeders. Turkeys just stand beside you as you fiddle with the strings on the feed bag and struggle to lift and pour the 40kg of feed into the metal column feeder. If you take an especially long time getting the bag open, the turkeys gather around your boots, looking up at you and warbling helpful advice.

I want to meet the person who invented the feedbag string system and I want to kick them in the shins. On thirty-degree days I am often found in a damp, smelly chicken coop, fussing with the strings that are supposed to easily release with a tug on the knot on the opposite side and opposite end of the feed bag label. The bags are double-stitched all the way down the seam so you can’t just take an exacto knife or pair of scissors to it. Anyway, it can be trying.

The turkeys also appreciate a clean, dry bed of hay, but they don’t go through it as quickly because they drink and eat at about one-tenth the speed of the chickens. They hardly eat or drink at all, actually, in comparison to the feathered beasts in the next pen. The only real complaint I have about the turkeys is that they like to sneak into the new chick pens to snuggle down under the heat lamp. I come in in the mornings to find the new chicks struggling to crawl out from under the bigger turkeys. So I took the turkeys out of the new chick pen and stretched chicken wire (aptly named) over the top of the pen. The next day I found the turkeys had been sitting on the wire, looking down and pooping on the little chicks below. So the Farmer moved the new chicks to their own pen in the lambing area. Now they are having a blast, running around and hiding in the corners of their vast space.

The Farmer used to keep his birds outside. He built them shelter from the elements and provided water in a long, low trough. I think the birds would enjoy being outside. My cats don’t seem to be intrigued by them at all and the sheep certainly wouldn’t bother them. The horse and donkey might be interested in the noise the birds make but if we fence off the area they should be safe.

The Farmer says he has to clip the wings of the birds so that they don’t try to fly away. And then we have to make sure they have everything they need, and that the area has been bird-proofed. When I first visited the farm in 2006, the birds loved to sit on the cedar rail fence. This was fine until the birds got to such a weight (turkeys in particular) that they would fall off the fence and break their necks. So we have to watch for hazards like that. But, as always, I think that a free-range animal is much happier and healthier than one that is kept in a room in the barn. And a Farmwife is much happier and healthier if she can get the darned feedbag open, which is now much easier since the Farmer pointed out that you open them from the zipline on the bottom.

Paulina (my baby), ready for Prom.

2011-06-15T06:33:00.000-07:00

For everything there is a season

2011-06-15T06:30:00.001-07:00

The years spent on a farm are marked by seasons rather than by specific dates. You count another year when you reach another lambing season, haying season or planting season. Sometimes we remember the year by how bad or good a particular season was—by how much rain or snow we got. How cold it was when the lambs were born.

Life, on the other hand, is measured by moments. I remember the night of my wedding rehearsal. The Farmer called me out onto the porch, away from the crowd of family and friends, so that he could tell me something privately. That is one of my treasured moments.

We are entering another season of our lives now, as our most recent graduate plans to move out of the farm. She wants to live in the city, on her own, until she figures out what she wants to study at university. She is still young—not yet eighteen—and feels she needs the extra time to figure out what her path will be. I know I shouldn’t worry about her, because she consistently makes very mature, wise decisions about her life, all on her own. But I worry anyway.

Friday was Paulina’s prom. It was the culmination of a month of prom dress, shoe and handbag shopping. She is grateful that I spent all that time and money driving her around and getting her fully kitted up for the event. I am grateful for the time we spent together, the moments she confided in me, and the laughs we shared.

On Friday, I watched as she did her makeup, stuck on false eyelashes and fingernails. All by herself. Normally she has at least one of her older sisters around to help with this ritual before a special event. They lock themselves in the bedroom with the radio blaring and all I can hear is the occasional burst of laughter. This time her sisters had to work, so Polly had to do everything herself. Well, knowing Polly, she would have done it all herself anyway. Her sisters would have just been there for company. This time she was stuck with me. I stood helpless and watched as she fussed with her hair, the nail glue, and those fringes of eyelashes. I offered advice that wasn’t taken, and encouragement that may not have been heard. I don’t think I helped much by being there, but I’m glad I was.

Teenagers may spend the bulk of their time locked in their room with the computer and the iPhone, but at least they are there. We get time together when we drive them to work and school, parties and shopping. Occasionally we share a few laughs. I’ve been lucky to have had so many of those memorable moments with my daughters. We have photos of some of these times spent together, so that they will never be forgotten.

This is the end of an era. I don’t have to nag Paulina about getting up for school or doing her homework anymore. I don’t have to remind her to do the laundry or the dishes. Our relationship will now evolve into one where we talk on the phone, she drops in for Sunday dinner and special family celebrations. She gets to make her own schedules now. It’s her life to do with what she wants. I’m very excited for her.

At the same time, there is a huge lump in my throat because I remember struggling to get her to sit down in that high chair, like it was only yesterday. I remember chasing her naked butt down the street when she escaped from me at bath time. I remember her kindergarten teacher calling home to tell me that my tiny four-year-old was a nervous little girl, and that perhaps I should send more snacks.

Somewhere along the way, that little girl became a very independent young woman. She doesn’t need any of us anymore. She will be just fine on her own.

I can’t take the credit for raising such a strong, intelligent and mature young woman. Paulina took a little bit from each person that she admired, and with the best parts of us she formed herself.

Paulina has always had a heart for the needy person in school or in the neighbourhood. I hope she never loses that. Maybe she will find a future that is more of a calling than a career.

All I want for her is health and happiness. And as our time together living under the same roof draws to an end, I wish I could travel back in time for just an afternoon, to the day when she asked me if I would play Barbies with her, and I was too busy doing something else. I have the time now, Paulina. Ask me again.

Cultivating character in the garden

2011-06-15T06:29:00.002-07:00

“I am inspired to journey out of doors and to travel inward simultaneously, because spring is everywhere. How can a person not garden in spring? Because every garden is a place of dreams and every gardener a dreamer, we should find nothing strange and much that is symbolic in our own and other gardens. Are the paths straight, or do they curve and wander? What colours appear consistently? Does the gardener worry about ripping out every last weed? When we want to learn something important about ourselves, it’s a good idea to go into our garden. We’ll find that we’ve planted a lot of answers there.” ~ Freeman Patterson, the garden.

If our gardens are meant to be representative of ourselves, then it’s ok that mine is colourful, messy and overgrown. When I dream of the perfect garden, it is a waist-high riot of fragrant blooms. Like me, it isn’t too concerned about tidy appearances. In order to keep the perennials from being choked out, however, I do have to pull the occasional weed. As spring fades into summer once again, I am making a conscientious effort to get outside and work on the garden and flowerbeds while the getting is good.

Early morning, before the heat beckons the mosquitoes, I head to the tomato patch, hoe in hand. I lay a satisfying “whack” at the base of a dandelion plant and another at the foot of a thistle. Where the grass has begun to creep over the edging, I hoist my fearsome “claw” tool, twisting havoc where it lands. Maybe that is why I have a slightly pulled rotator cuff: over-enthusiastic garden-clawing.

At the front of the house, I survey the raised flowerbed of perennials. The daffodils didn’t like it here. Not a single one bloomed out of the several dozen that I planted. I make a mental note to plant them down on the ground in the fall. In fact, I might do what I’ve seen on other farm properties, and just plant them scattered throughout the ditch at the road. I think that’s called “naturalizing”. Theoretically, I should be able to do this all over the lawn but knowing the Farmer, he would have them mowed down before they had a chance to bloom in spring.

The bane of my gardening existence is the wild yellow chrysanthemum thing that someone once told me was called “the outhouse flower”. Good name. The Farmer loves it so it remains, but it needs to be kept under control. It grows five feet tall and spreads across the entire cultivated area if you let it, swallowing anything in its path. This year I pulled out a patch of the stuff and made room for my new plant, the Rose of Sharon. I ordered this from the Henry Fields seed catalogue and I’m very excited about watching it grow.

Along the rock fence facing the house is my shade garden. Here I have six fat, leafy hostas of different varieties, along with columbine, bleeding heart, and perfumed bee balm. I love the names of these plants. Bee balm sounds so much better than Monarda, which is its horticultural name. I once bought a plant because of its name, which was “love lies bleeding”. I ripped it out after the first season, however, because it was so ugly. My guilty addition to this garden this year is the purple lupin, which is something you might see growing across a field in the Atlantic provinces. I hope it gets enough refracted sunlight to survive in the shade of the tree.

Uncle Bill’s heritage peonies have spread to form a hedge at the end of my vegetable garden. I also plant a handful of cosmos seeds here every year, because their soft pastels and feathery stalks remind me of when I first planted them to decorate for our wedding day.

I have always wanted zinnias, so I sprinkled a row of seeds in front of the now-deserted children’s playhouse. For my mother, I planted a row of glad bulbs. In memory of my father, I planted his favourite – a deep red hollyhock. It will grow to be five feet tall and the focal point of the farmhouse flowerbed. We are going to have some beautiful flower arrangements on the Sunday dinner table this summer.

Mousers Free to a Good Home

2011-06-15T06:29:00.000-07:00

What better way to spend a holiday Monday than at a farm auction. It went from cool to hot to a little rain, but the Farmer happily mixed and mingled with his peers, discussing the merits of bush hogs and backhoes, for a good six hours. I was there for about an hour when an idea hit me. This place is full of farmers. Don’t farmers need barn cats? I asked permission of the host, then hopped in the truck and went home to scoop up some kittens.

I also threw a few extra cat carriers in the truck, as a value-add to the adoptive owners. I made a sign: “Free Mousers” – and enlisted help to walk around the crowd with kitties in their arms. I shouldn’t have bothered. The only farmers that need kittens are the ones that have just entered the farming life. And I’m sure even then, if they look around hard enough, they will find a cat in their barn. So the kittens and I had an outing. For no reason. They got taken out of their carriers for cuddles. They even got bottled water and Temptations cat treats. But they didn’t get adopted.

When I married the Farmer, he probably had about six cats. He put a single bowl of dry food down in the barn every day and didn’t worry about them. When the girls and I moved in, we were enchanted by the friendly beasts. We lured them up onto the back porch with food and they probably had at least two good meals a day. Slowly the population grew. When they were sick, I took them to the vet and saved their lives. I give them homeopathic veterinary medicine when they have a flu virus and I put Polysporin drops in their eyes when they are infected. My cats are fat and healthy. The last two years, it has become apparent that we need to take steps to control this prolific animal family. But at $200 a pop, it won’t happen overnight.

Our most pressing issue is the bumper crop of kittens that we currently have at the farm. The Village Kitten Rescue of North Gower (http://www.vkrkittens.com/) and Big Sky Ranch of Kemptville have offered to send kitten seekers our way. They have even posted photos of our kittens so that people will see what cute cuddlers we have to offer.

Of course, as operators of animal shelters, they understand the importance of spaying and neutering our cats. If someone adopts a kitten of mine, Village Kitten Rescue is willing to arrange necessary vaccinations, deworming and spay / neutering at a big discount.

Now is your chance to get the housecat you always wanted, while doing something good. These cats may have been born in a barn, but they have manners. They are easily trained to use a litter box, to learn their boundaries and to obey the rules of the house. Take Sheila, for instance. She was brought into the house before winter last year, to provide companionship for another kitten that was being treated indoors for an eye infection. After a few months, the infection was gone, but the kittens had not grown enough winter fur to be allowed outside. We made adoption posters, circulating them around town and on the Internet. In a short time, the newly recovered kitten was adopted. But Sheila remained.

“Since when do we have a house cat?” the Farmer asked one day, as Sheila sauntered past him on her way to her water bowl, carrying her “practice kitten” (a small frog beanie toy) in her mouth.

“Since about Halloween,” I said.

Sheila is not the biggest cuddler, but she does have her favourite place to sit next to her humans on the couch. We enjoy our conversations (she is very vocal and seems to understand our speech) and find her habits quite entertaining. Sheila knows she isn’t allowed on tables and countertops, she can play fight without using her teeth or claws, and she uses her litterbox effectively.

If you are interested in adopting one of the Fisher Farm kittens, contact me at: dianafisher1@gmail.com.

2011-05-26T13:21:00.000-07:00

Tips for a healthy Farmwife-life

2011-05-24T07:15:00.001-07:00

Now that I am working from my home office, I can take my coffee break in front of the TV once in a while. Last week I caught some advice on how to fool your body into thinking you are 20 years younger. Now, I wouldn’t want to be 23 again for anything. But I do like to learn about healthy living. So I took notes. And planned to try the tips out on my unsuspecting husband.

Apparently we are supposed to do 4 daily things to slow down the aging process.

Number 1: Cleanse your skin. That’s a no-brainer for me. I’ve been doing that for years, because I love the feeling of freshly-washed, toned and moisturized skin. However, if you go anywhere near the Farmer with a lotion or potion, he runs screaming. I think we’re going to have to skip this one for him. I will try to spray some sunscreen on him before he heads out for a day of fishing.

Number 2: Get 8 hours of sleep per night. This should be a pretty easy one for us. We are usually in bed by 10 and up by 630 or so. On weekends, that whole thing moves back a couple of hours, but we are still pretty good about sleep time. The problem is we don’t always get quality sleep, because the Farmer occasionally gets restless leg syndrome. He jiggles and shakes in his sleep, making it a rough night for both of us. Someone once told me an old wives’ tale that this old wife might eventually try: slip a bar of soap under the blanket at the foot of the bed to get him to stop wiggling. Will Lever 2000 do?

Number 3: Exercise a total of 300 minutes per week, minimum. Or 5 hours. That’s an hour a day if we allow two days off a week. Not gonna happen. I’m wondering if I got the number wrong. We’re too exhausted after our farm chores to do any exercise. I do yoga in the morning, but that’s just to get the kinks out. We recently received pedometers, so we can count how many steps we take around the farm all day, but neither one of us can get through an hour without accidentally resetting the darn thing. Here’s hoping our hay pitching and manure forking is enough to get us into shape.

Number 4: Eat more of these three things: eggplant, sweet potatoes, and blueberries.

I didn’t hear the disclaimer, where you aren’t supposed to serve all three of these in one meal. I made Greek moussaka (sort of an eggplant lasagna), sweet potato home fries and blueberries for dessert. No, they don’t exactly go together. I’m not a very intuitive cook, but you won’t starve in my house. The Farmer was wondering why there was no meat involved in his meal. After dinner, he looked at the dog and said, “the next time you see her going for the television, hide the remote.”

2011-05-24T07:14:00.000-07:00

Hot Dog Comes Home

2011-05-23T15:07:00.001-07:00

We once had a little kitten we named Hot Dog. He was named this because of his penchant for bits of weiners that we would give him as a snack. All day long, Hot Dog would sit at the patio door and wait for it to open so he could dart in and run to the fridge. There he would sit until someone noticed him. Then he would roll on his back and do his “cute routine” until he was rewarded with a hot dog bit. He wasn’t very vocal – not like Sheila, our self-proclaimed house cat, who hollers a blue streak until she gets a small handful of cat treats. Hot Dog was a well-loved kitten. But he resisted being made a pet. He preferred to be outside.

On Sundays, when family came over for dinner, people would comment on the fact that Hot Dog didn’t seem to be growing. He maintained his kitten size for months. Perhaps that is part of what endeared him to everyone. He even won the Farmer’s heart.

One day when I came home from an outing, I found the Farmer sitting on the couch watching TV, with his faithful kitten tucked in beside his hip, sound asleep.

At our annual farm party in August, one of our guests held Hot Dog on her lap for the entire evening. He just lay there calmly as about 50 people streamed in and out of the house, making all sorts of noise. He seemed to enjoy the activity. He wasn’t your typical feral barn cat. He was a people cat.

One day last September, Hot Dog wasn’t at the door when I went out in the morning. I searched the stable, where he often slept in the hay. He wasn’t there either. The next Sunday at dinner, I dreaded telling everyone that he had disappeared. I wondered what had happened to him. Maybe he got eaten by a coyote?

“He’s so trusting, he would probably just walk right up to a coyote and try to play,” someone said. I worried that the neighbour’s dogs had eaten him. He was too small to be chased off the farm by another dominant male. This often happens with our older cats but not kittens.

Maybe I had given him too many hot dogs, and he had a reaction to the overload of nitrates. Poor little thing. Anyway, whatever happened, he disappeared for a few months.

One day a couple of medium-sized gray tabby cats showed up on the back porch. I can’t remember when that was. I keep looking through my photos trying to remember the first time I saw them. I know that one of these cats has always been wild and scared, while the other has been quite tame. Funny that I didn’t make the connection and realize that it was our dearly beloved Hot Dog. I guess that’s a sign that I have too many cats. I no longer recognize them.

Now I am taking every opportunity to pet this lovable cat, so that he will remain tame and easy to manage. That way, if I have to give him medication at some point, it will be easy. Or if someone wishes to adopt him, he will make a good pet. I noticed that Sheila has chosen him as her favourite wrestling partner. They spend hours rolling around the lawn together as one big fluffy ball of kitten.

I still wonder what his story is – what made him disappear for a few months? Did he simply feel winter coming and head to the barn to nest? Only Hot Dog knows for sure, and he isn’t telling his secrets.

I guess I have something to add to my grocery list, to welcome him back. A package of tasty hot dogs.

2011-05-11T10:35:00.002-07:00

2011-05-11T10:35:00.000-07:00

spring lambs

2011-05-09T11:34:00.000-07:00

Happy Mother's Day to Ewe and You!

2011-05-09T07:09:00.001-07:00

The Farmer decided to let the ewes and lambs out of the barn in honour of the nicer weather. Or maybe it was in honour of Mother’s Day. Out in the open pasture, the little ones are continually getting separated from their mothers. All I can hear is the sound of hoarse little lambs going “Maaaa-aaaah!” Some of the ewes answer, while others don’t. The unresponsive ones aren’t necessarily bad mothers. They might be just a little preoccupied.

The day before Mother’s Day found me in Walmart. I watched a frazzled mother juggling two kids in the lineup at McDonald’s. One little guy, kicking his foot impatiently against the hip he was resting on, lost his shoe. His eyes followed the colourful sneaker as he and his mother slowly moved away from it and towards their table. He started to wail in some indecipherable baby gibberish that only made sense to him. The young mum tried to shush him as she fit him into his high chair. Finally she noticed her son was missing his footwear and retraced her steps to retrieve the shoe. Little man sniffled and shivered and reached for a French fry.

As I watched from my vantage point across the crowd, I was instantly transported back in time about 18 years. I had a side-by-side stroller with two little girls in it. The larger child was four years old and her little sister was one. I was pregnant with my third. My back ached and my feet throbbed. I was in a hurry to get through the crowd of slow-moving shoppers so we could go home. The baby needed a nap. She was getting cranky. It seemed that she was getting fussier and more agitated with every step I took. I moved more quickly. The grumbling turned into a wail. “Anastasia! Would you please give me a break!” I hissed as I finally reached the end of the mall, opened the door and navigated the stroller outside. It was then that I noticed her shoe was missing. And Milena had a really guilty look on her face.

“Did you take your sister’s shoe off?” I asked her, putting two and two together.

“It’s in the stowah,” she smiled, pointing back down the long mall. Sigh.

I searched for 30 minutes and never did find that shoe. Damn side-by-side strollers.

Eighteen years ago. Eighteen months ago, it seems. And now my last baby bird is preparing her wings for flight. I worry she won’t have nice roommates. I worry she won’t eat properly. That she won’t be safe. Or happy. I have to try to keep my worries to myself. And be proud of the independent young woman I have helped to raise.

On our wedding day, the Farmer and I wanted our five daughters to play an important part in the ceremony. We had them each read a verse from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.

As Mother’s Day passes by for another year, let’s remind ourselves what it’s all about:

“Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness; for even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.”

Happy Mother’s Day, everyone.

Warning: Graphic Birthing Tales from the Farm

2011-05-06T13:55:00.001-07:00

Here’s how it’s supposed to go. Ewe starts to feel a little pressure, takes herself to a quiet corner of the communal pen, lies down. She spends a few minutes in labour on her side, turning her nose skyward with every contraction. Then she will shift around and maybe stand up to give birth. Lamb emerges nose and two front hooves first. Slides out easily onto fresh, dry hay, and mother immediately begins clearing the airway and stimulating the lamb to breathe by licking its face clean. Ewe continues to lick the slimy wet off the lamb until it is completely clean and dry. Fluffy, even. Lamb, invigorated by all the massaging, is prompted to get up and seek out milk. It stands up, wanders to the back of its mother and, guided with gentle prodding from the mother’s nose, finds the milk and drinks. Mother stands stock still until baby has had its fill. Baby then wanders into a warm dry corner of the pen, curls up and falls asleep. At this point I walk in, discover the newcomer, congratulate the mother and reward her with her own cordoned-off area of the pen and a handful of sweetfeed. It often does go like this, thankfully. But with 45 ewes scheduled to deliver, you can be sure there will be a few catastrophes in the bunch. These are what keep me awake at night.

In some cases, everything that can go wrong will go wrong. I will head out to the barn to feed and check on everyone and this is what I will find. A lamb is stuck halfway out of its mother, its second hoof pointing inward instead of out. Maybe the ewe has already been pushing for a while and she is exhausted, so she is lying down. On the unborn lamb’s head. I have to don arm-length plastic gloves and assist. I don’t like this job. I’ve only done it once, when the Farmer wasn’t home. I worry I will cause a prolapse of the uterus. I think that’s what it’s called, when the ewe’s insides try to follow the birth on the way out. Nasty. I read on The Pioneer Woman website that she keeps a big bag of sugar at the ready during calving season. Apparently if a cow begins to prolapse, you can shrink the uterus by putting it in a bag of sugar, then gently push it back into the mother. And hope for the best. I haven’t had to try this yet, and I’m hoping I never have to.

Occasionally one of our ewes will deliver a stillborn. Sometimes these lambs are deformed in some way but usually they appear to be completely normal. Often they are big, beautiful babies that had a very good chance at survival, and there is no reason for them to be born dead. That’s frustrating.

Our ewes normally have one or two lambs, but when they have multiples there can be serious problems. Often one will be deprived of oxygen and born a bit “stupid”, without a will to thrive. It’s heartbreaking, to watch these little ones fade away.

Sometimes the lambs are born without the suckling instinct. We’ve recently discovered that this is due to a lack of selenium in the soil in Eastern Ontario. An injection may be all it needs to begin suckling normally. Other times the mother just gives birth to the lamb and lets it lie there, neglected. The lamb needs to be dried off, stimulated to breathe and to eat. It’s very difficult for a farmer to replace the ewe at this stage. The lamb also needs the first milk, or colostrum, in its first 24 hours. If we can’t get the colostrum from its own mother, we will try to steal some from someone else who gave birth the same day, and feed it to the lamb with a syringe. This stuff is liquid gold. I have seen limp lambs come to life on colostrum. It’s an infusion of energy.

Currently I have two that lambs that are pretty much completely dependent on me for their survival. One bites instead of sucking. I don’t blame her mother for running away when she approaches. The other lamb is very good at suckling, but her mother doesn’t have much milk. She will have to learn to steal from the other mothers when they have their heads in the feeder. We have to try to get these weak lambs through the next few weeks with milk replacer until they are old enough to survive on grain, hay and water.

Lately, these are the two that keep me up at night. I haven’t named them, but I know them by their markings. They know me by the bottle in my hand, and the smell of milk.

2011-04-25T09:39:00.000-07:00

2011-04-25T09:37:00.001-07:00

Lulu the overprotective mother

2011-04-25T09:33:00.001-07:00

It’s a good thing we had a break from the ice pellets, snow flurries and gale-force winds Tuesday because that was the afternoon Lulu decided to have her lambs. Outside.

I was looking for the horse and found her, standing with Donkey, on a hill of hay beyond the feeders. Wobbling around beneath their legs were three little black-and-white lambs. Mama Lulu was busy trying to coax her babes out from under the huge Belgian. Fearless, she repeatedly head butted Misty’s legs in an attempt to get the massive horse to move. As I approached, the horse and Donkey moved toward me and the sheep family was reunited. But I had to get them in the barn.

First I scooped up the lambs – all three of them. Lulu started screaming at me. Then I started backing up toward the barn, and her job was to follow. Usually this technique works pretty well. But normally the curious horse is not there, getting in the way and blocking the ewe’s view of her lambs. Lulu scurried back to the spot where she had given birth. She ran around in circles, calling for her lambs. I pushed Misty out of the way and went back to Lulu. She saw the lambs in my arms, commented and followed me for a moment, then something distracted her and she ran back to the birthing spot again.

I decided to try something else. I went into the barn with the lambs and deposited two of them in the pen. I took the third one back outside as bait. The lamb’s cries summoned the mother, who suddenly charged at me, head butting my leg. Ow! I almost dropped the lamb. I backed up as fast as I could, tripping over muddy tractor ruts. Lulu charged me again. “Hey! I’m trying to help you!” She was intent on getting that lamb out of my arms. Finally we were in the barn. I opened the gate, put the third lamb in the pen, and the other lambs started crying. Lulu heard them and ran toward their call. I shoved her fluffy butt into the pen with my boot and slammed the gate shut behind her. She grumbled and knickered at her lambs, touching each one on the top of the head with her nose, to count them.

“One, two, three. Huey, Dewey and Louie. They’re all there, mama.”

I set up the pen with hay, fresh water and a bowl of sweetfeed for the lactating ewe. It didn’t take her long to get used to the idea of being locked up. She had a nice, dry pen with room service.

Sheep only have two teats so naturally you tend to worry when there are more than two lambs born. I went back outside a few hours later and all three were up and feeding. Their hips were rounded (if the tummy is empty their hips hollow out) and they seemed to be content. I thought I should give them each 50mls of milk replacer anyway, just to top them up.

I leaned over the gate and reached as far into the pen as I could. I couldn’t reach a lamb. They looked at me, sniffed my gloves, but stayed just out of reach. The ewe turned to look at me. She squared herself toward me, and backed up a couple steps. Uh-oh. I could sense another head butt coming on. I straightened up and looked at her. She stamped her foot in warning.

Then I remembered the shepherd’s crook. I had seen the Farmer pick up lambs this way. I dipped the hook into the pen, wiggled it under a belly and scooped the lamb up.

“Haha. Got your lamb,” I told mama. She grumbled at me, and pushed her nose through the gate to sniff at the bottle of milk I was feeding her young.

Oh well, better an overprotective mother than one with no maternal instincts at all.

Life and death on the farm: lambing season begins.

2011-04-15T08:51:00.001-07:00

I headed out to the barn the other morning with lambs on my mind. The ewes are right on schedule for the season, and they’ve been patiently waiting in the barn for a couple of weeks now.

First I checked under and around the feeders in the yard. I don’t want anyone getting away with dropping a lamb and abandoning it. It’s happened before. Then I checked all corners in the barn, where the ewes who are still outside (awaiting haircuts) would most likely wander in to give birth. That isn’t the plan, of course (but farm animals laugh at human plans). The most pregnant-looking ewes have already been shorn and are inside, where it is dry and warm.

When I entered the lambing area, I noticed something odd. A ewe was lying on her side, and all her pen-mates were as far from her as possible, in the corner. I climbed in to see what I could do. Normally I would call the Farmer in at this point but he had already headed in to work for his last day of exams. I was on my own.

The ewe appeared to be very old. She had a very bony back and she was wearing the metal ear tag belonging to the first set of sheep the Farmer had bought about eleven years ago. She had probably provided over a dozen lambs over the years. I tucked a flannel rag under her cheek to make her more comfortable. Her eyes looked sad. Her breathing was shallow. I decided to roll her onto a blanket and pull her out of the pen so that she wouldn’t get trampled by the other sheep on their way to the feeder. Sometimes all we can do is make them comfortable in their last hours. I wasn’t even sure if she was pregnant. It’s sometimes difficult to tell, particularly with the old girls.

I wondered if she was dying of old age or if she had just toppled over and exhausted herself, as the pregnant ewes seem to be fond of doing. I rolled her up onto her elbows and there she sat, happily munching on a bowl of sweet feed. But still she couldn’t get up on her own. I scratched my head and decided to let the Farmer solve the mystery.

Just then I heard the unmistakable sound of a newborn lamb. “Baaaaaaaa”, obviously, but it sounded like he was saying, “Hel-lo! I’m over here! Come see me!” And then another little wee voice joined him, in harmony. Twins. I climbed into the pen and greeted the one little lamb with a mottled black face, compliments of our new Suffolk ram, Steve. I found the second lamb tucked under the feeder. This one was tinier than our house kitten, Sheila. Finally, I noticed a third lamb, in between his siblings in size. He had his head in the corner and he didn’t appear to be strong enough to stand. We had triplets.

I found the mother right away. She was old, but very attentive. She knickered in response to their bleating and nibbled on their woolly coats to dry them. All three had been well looked after.

Often when multiples are born, one or more will be temporarily deprived of oxygen, leaving them a bit stupid upon entry into this world. These poor creatures are regularly found rooting around in corners and under feeders, in a feeble attempt to find their mother’s teat. They will only survive if we manage to get some of their mother’s colostrum into them. I’m no good at milking sheep. I tried, and the ewe was very patient, but I only got a few drops. We had to wait for the Farmer to come home at lunch.

I mixed up a bottle of milk replacer and fed my new lambs. They weren’t very good suckers – so I filled a syringe dropper with milk and filled their bellies that way.

That afternoon the Farmer did the best he could to help the lamb. But it died anyway.

I peeled my smelly barn clothes off and scrubbed the itchy lanolin off my forearms. And vowed not to get too attached to the new babies this year.

First of the spring lambs arrived this morning. In triplicate.

2011-04-14T14:13:00.000-07:00

Letter to a Loved One

2011-04-14T13:54:00.002-07:00

At least one of our cats has had kittens. Her previously bulbous belly now looks like a deflated balloon, and she keeps coming up to the house for more treats more treats more treats. I wish someone would open a clinic where they allow you to bring your barn cats to get fixed. And I wish that researcher would hurry up and create that cat contraceptive she’s been writing about. I need it. I know you would have a comment or two about my problem but you can just keep that opinion to yourself, thanks.:)

Most of the lambs are in the barn now, with swelling udders (do sheep have udders?) and really bad haircuts. Actually the Farmer did a fantastic job with his brand-new shears but the sheep just look odd to me with no wool. They look naked and foolish. Lambs will be born by the end of the month. Then the excitement begins. I hope we have planned the season well and taken all necessary precautions so that the lambing will be successful and the ewes will have plenty of milk and maternal instincts to care for their young. And if they don’t, I’ll be there with a baby bottle in the middle of the night to feed the forgotten.

The snow is all gone and the tulips are coming up. I sent away for a Rose of Sharon and I’m more than a little excited about it. Hopefully “Sharon” will take over and choke out the yellow outhouse flowers that crowd my flower bed each year.

I bought a pot of salmon-pink Gerbera daisies (my favourite; probably not yours ;) to put on your gravesite today. But I didn’t make it there. Life is busy, as I’m sure you remember. And quite honestly, although we chose the perfect spot for future generations to visit and remember you – at the back of the cemetery, on the ridge overlooking the creek, where deer and birds visit (we’ve seen the tracks) - I just don’t get the feeling that you are there. I know many people go to the final resting places of their loved ones and talk to them, bringing them up to date on the goings on of their lives. I just don’t feel I need to do that. I feel you already know exactly what’s going on in my life.

You know I’m in between jobs and a little stressed by it. When I’m writing a huge proposal for a contract, I feel you are giving me advice and putting words into my head. Checking my math on the financials. I get some sort of energy from you that pushes me to meet my assignment deadlines and boosts my confidence at meetings and presentations.

I’m sure you know we buried two of our friends this week, and that we were physically and emotionally exhausted by Friday, my 43^rd birthday. The gatherings, the visitations, the funeral – it’s been three years since we were the ones standing in line receiving heartfelt sympathies but the memories are still very fresh.

You know that one of the issues lying in wait, eager to be dealt with, is that our only remaining daughter plans to move out this summer. As she should. She is almost eighteen. I’m not worried about the empty nest syndrome – the Farmer and I enjoy each other’s company and we are proud of our independent daughters. I’m just worried that she is entering that next phase, heading off into the great unknown. I know you know what I’m going through. But I sure would love to have you here, to get your opinion, your advice and your sense of humour, which always had a way of lightening the load.

I miss you Dad. Love, D. x

Secret Lives of Animals

2011-04-14T13:54:00.000-07:00

Does your dog or cat have a certain sparkle in their eyes that makes you wonder what they’ve been up to while you’ve been at work? Up until a few weeks ago, I worked outside the home fulltime. Now that my commute is a short walk down the stairs and into the den, I can see what goes on around the farm all day. It’s been quite an eye-opener, to say the least.

One morning last week, the Farmer / Professor had just left for work and I was heading out to the barn to feed our ewes-in-waiting. I was just passing by the feeders when an odd movement caught my eye. A very round ewe was lying on her back in the mud. She was bicycling her little stick legs in the air, in a vain attempt to turn herself over. I ran over, wedged my arms underneath her and shoved with all my might. My feet slid in the muddy bed she had made, and she rolled right on top of me. Ugh. I just sat there for a moment or two, catching my breath. I took a rag out of my pocket and wiped the mud out of her eye. I could feel her heart pounding as she lay exhausted on my arm. 1, 2, again I shoooooved and finally she was up on her feet….and then she flopped back again in my direction. I stopped her with my body, tipped her back up on her feet and quickly straddled her, holding her upright until she could steady herself. I could feel all her insides gurgling and shifting. Gross. Finally the dizziness lifted and she had the strength to take a few staggering steps away from me. Her entire bulk had shifted over to the side where she had lain, probably for most of the night. She was definitely a lop-sided sheep. I kept a close eye on her for the rest of the morning, and by noon she appeared to be almost normal again. Later I saw the horse bullying her way around the feeder, spilling sheep left and right. That’s probably how the ewe ended on her back: she just rolled down the hill and ended up in the mud. Made me wonder what else goes on when the animals don’t know someone is watching. I soon found out.

As I re-entered the house, I caught the cat playing hockey with something shiny. It was one of Paulina’s earrings, and it was heading for the basement stairs, where it probably would have ended up in the floor drain or sump pump. I confiscated it just in time, as the cat squawked her disappointment at me. I made a mental note to check the basement floor for my missing USB stick and camera batteries.

After lunch, as I was settling in to my armchair with a cup of tea and a 52-page document, I saw something out the window that made me take a second look. Donkey was in the driveway, rolling on his back. I opened the door and sure enough, the horse was out there in the yard too. “Hey, you two!” I yelled. When Misty saw me, she dug her hooves into the yard, tearing up the grass. She kicked her hind legs in the air and took off after Donkey, who was heading back to the stable. Those two rascals navigated their way back through the farm equipment, stopped to nibble at the hay bale, and then gingerly stepped back through the door to the barnyard (Misty scraping her big belly as she squeezed through). The door swung shut and latched itself as they exited. I just stood there scratching my head. So that explains the mysterious droppings I sometimes find on my lawn when the animals are innocently watching me from the confines of the fencing.

About an hour later I heard the noise of the oil truck coming down the driveway. I thought it odd that Cody didn’t bark at all. I looked out the kitchen window, just in time to see the driver hop down out of his truck, with a Tupperware container of food in his hand. As I watched, this guy emptied his lunch leftovers into Cody’s bowl, and then proceeded to attach the hose to the house, filling up our oil tank, natural as could be.

After he drove away, I opened the door and Cody looked at me, wagging his tail.

“So I guess you have a whole other life I don’t know about, huh?” He wagged his tail and continued to munch on his sub sandwich.

Farming is sexy. In every sense of the word.

2011-03-31T13:47:00.000-07:00

A politician was lambasted last year for saying that the isotope crisis was “sexy”. A junk-picker on a reality show labeled a rusty old European clock “sexy”. And if you watch television, listen to the radio and read magazines, you might notice something else that is suddenly sexy: Farming.

In this usage, sexy means it’s a hot topic or commodity. People are talking about it. It’s getting attention. Perhaps it’s our new sense of global awareness that is prompting us to look upon one of the most basic of occupations, providing food from the land, with a new kind of fondness.

We live in a land of abundance. We have the ability to produce enough wheat to feed the world. That is, if we don’t turn all of our farmland over to development. Farms are disappearing, as are farmers. Perhaps that rarity is making them sexier.

Of course, farming was always sexy, if we were paying attention. Yes, it involves a lot of dirt, sweat and manure, but it also involves a certain sensuality that is lost once we move away from the land.

Farmers are romantic. They rarely miss a sunrise or sunset. They depend on the weather for the success of their crops, so they pray for rain to quench the garden’s thirst, or they pray that the sun will hold out long enough for them to bring the hay in.

Farmers are sensitive. They watch their animals closely, watching for signs of poor health, injury, impending birth. They learn to communicate in simple, unspoken ways. The few words that they choose to speak are the ones that count.

Farmers are strong. Farmwork is physical, and it involves being outdoors a lot. As a result, Farmers tend to be fairly healthy, they sleep well at night and live long, fulfilling lives.

All of our diet-conscious advice these days is telling us to slow down and think about what we are putting into our mouths. What will it do for our bodies? Provide calcium, iron, vitamins? Where did it come from and how did it get to the store or market? Farming is the original link in the chain of our healthy lives. We should care about it. We shouldn’t let our children grow up to think their hamburgers and milk are magically created out of thin air in the grocery store.

We’ve all seen the billboards and bumper stickers: if you’ve eaten today, thank a Farmer. Well, where did you think it came from??

The next time you see a Farmer, take note of the callused hands that are strong enough to pull wires into fences, but gentle enough to birth baby animals. Notice the wrinkles around his eyes from squinting at the sun, the laugh lines around his mouth. Farmers have got to have a sense of humour. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps them going, I’m sure.

And if that ain’t sexy, well, I don’t know what is.

It's beginning to feel a lot like springtime...

2011-03-20T09:05:00.000-07:00

In what other country are there four distinct seasons to celebrate and complain about? I love living in Canada. Summer is gorgeous, of course, with its hedonistic heat and its moody storms. Autumn is my favourite season – many people find the waning of the summer sun depressing but I find the cooler weather invigorating and the refracted sunlight beautiful. I’ve seen over forty winters come and go, yet I still have my breath taken away by the beauty of the first fresh blanket of snow, every year. And now, enter Spring.

Did you know that green has a smell? The green of springtime certainly does. It’s the scent of new life pushing its way up through the melt, coaxed along by the warm rays of the sun. The tulips and daffodils in the farmhouse flowerbed are just starting to push spears up through the earth. The lilies will perk up next, then the allium, and finally the big hosta leaves will unfurl.

I get the urge to stir things up in springtime – to start a new exercise regime (I mucked out the horse stall and took the dog for a walk all in one afternoon!), cut my hair and try out a new recipe for salsa. This year I’m also looking for work, so there are lots of new beginnings.

The Spring Equinox arrived on Sunday, March 20^th, at 11:23pm. So did the sign of Aries. Maybe that is why I feel so energized and renewed. My birthday calendar is about to flip over too. Our daylight hours and night time hours are about equal, and everyone seems to be in a better mood than they were a month ago. Spring fever is contagious.

I think the Farmer and I have conceded that Misty is not pregnant. Her summer fling with the Belgian stud, Prince, was just that. A fling. The Farmer measured her belly one day, and it had reduced in size the next week. Her belly isn’t growing – she just has an extra-fluffy coat of winter fur and she bloats when she eats a lot of grain. But she isn’t expecting.

We might send our horse to be trained, finally, so we can ride her. That’s what I would like to do, anyway. Otherwise she is just a big pet. Maybe we can get her to help pull some logs out of the bush too. She likes to have a purpose.

The ewes have about a month to go before they begin giving birth. The sheep salon will be open for business shortly, so that we can get them all sheared before their due dates. We’re waiting as long as possible, because we will have to keep the ewes in the barn once they are shorn – otherwise they might catch a chill. When we (gently) tackle them for a shearing we will also give them each a shot of selenium to guard against white-muscle disease in their young. We are getting smart and learning from the previous year’s lessons.

I hope the Farmer agrees to let me try my hand at shearing. I will have to wear gloves because I am allergic to the lanolin in the wool, but I think I am strong enough to hold the sheep down. Anyway, you just have to cover the ewe’s head with your leg and she gives up the fight and plays dead.

It’s got to be easier than plucking a goose. And less smelly.

Hockey Night in Kemptville

2011-03-20T09:00:00.001-07:00

I didn’t raise any hockey players. My girls enjoy watching the game live with a bunch of friends, but none of them learned to play. My nephew, on the other hand, was probably handed a hockey stick and fitted for skates as soon as he could walk.

My sister invited us to attend one of Riley’s hockey games the other night. I felt a little out of place, and noticed one or two people (high school classmates) looking at me as if they were wondering what the heck I was doing there. They probably thought I was there to take photos for the newspaper.

The Farmer and I had thought ahead, bringing our fake-fur blanket to sit on in the stands. I remember going to hockey games with my Dad as a kid, freezing my bum to the seat. No real need for blankets here though – the stands in our new municipal centre arena are positively cozy, with heaters directed at the spectators.

As Riley’s team skated onto the ice, I couldn’t believe how big he was. I see him a few times a month when he joins us for Sunday dinner – and I buy him clothes – so I know he’s getting bigger but, really, this is ridiculous. I won’t go on and on or he will kill me. Just as he started doing his lunge stretches I swear I felt a presence settle in beside me. Dad was watching his grandson, and his favourite sport.

I was told not to yell, “Go, Panthers” because both teams on the ice had the same name. Riley is in Atom C3 so we tried to cheer “Let’s go C3, let’s go” but it didn’t have much of a ring to it.

I read somewhere that girls make really good hockey players – particularly goalies. I’m sure Hayley Wickenheiser (or is that Wickenhauser?) would concur. Aly Thibert and Mickayla Petersen are confident and quick on their skates and the puck rarely gets past them.

I felt a little foolish yelling out loud at the players at first, but once you get caught up in the game, it’s pretty hard to keep your mouth shut. By the end of it I was hoarse. But probably not as bad as the woman in front of me, who kept letting out this screaming squawk every time the play got exciting. She made me jump every time she did it.

I had to catch myself from giggling and pointing at some of the players – their parents were probably sitting beside us – but at age 9 and 10 the kids are various shapes and sizes. Some of them have a bit of growing to do in order to fill out their hockey jersey. But that doesn’t stop them from contributing to the play. They just have to move those legs a little faster.

I am not familiar with the rules of the game, nor can I follow it closely on the ice, so I won’t be giving a play-by-play of the action. Suffice it to say, we were all on the edge of our seats, from the puck drop through to the game-ending buzzer. Spurred on by the cheers of his proud parents in the crowd (I don’t know whether the players can hear their names from the ice but I’m sure that energy travels), Ryan Hess glided up and scored the winning goal in the last few minutes. Don’t ask me to remember the score. Like I said, I’m no sports commentator. Just a new fan of a game that reminds me so much of my Dad. I could hear him yelling his low, gravelly encouragement to the players, and one in particular: “Atta boy, Riley!”

Congratulations, all of you, and enjoy your March Break. I’ll be in the stands for the play offs!

Spring fever strikes the farm

2011-03-13T08:42:00.000-07:00

One day it’s pouring down rain and then you wake up the next morning under a foot of snow. That’s March in Ontario. It still looks like winter out there, but those of us who were born and raised in this area can see, hear and smell the signs. Spring is coming.

I don’t normally suffer from SAD – Seasonal Adjustment Disorder – from lack of sunshine in the winter, but I must confess I do get a touch of spring fever every year. I feel an urge to stir things up. I want to cut my hair off. Go for a 5k run. Wash the ceilings. When I look back over my life, most of the big life-changing decisions I have made happened in March/April. Life is much more settled and content for me now, but I still feel like doing something dramatic when the snow starts to melt under the springtime sun.

The Farmer spends so much time outside, he never even gets the sniffles. I don’t think he gets SAD either. But he is displaying one symptom of spring fever already. “I should start shearing the sheep,” he announced the other day. What? You want to take the wool off my ewes? But here’s the thing. The Farmer can only shear 5 or 6 sheep at a time, before his back gives out on him. As he is a university professor, he only has time to do this on the weekend. It will probably take him six weeks to get all 45 ewes sheared. Lambs are due late April. So he probably should get started now. But it’s just too cold. If we had a bunch of bald sheep in the yard, you can be sure the temperature would drop to minus 30 one more time, just to spite us.

He will wait until it’s warmer. It’s just that he bought himself a brand new set of shears in December, and he’s dyin’ to use ‘em. I had better keep my thoughts of a new haircut to myself or I might wake up with a big surprise.

It will be nice to have the sheep sheared before they lamb this year. It makes it much easier for the Dorset lambs to find the milk on their woolly mothers. And it gives the ewes time to grow back some wool before mosquito season. I may have to learn how to shear a sheep myself, to give the Farmer a break. Maybe I’ll be good at it.

I’m going out to the barn now, to brush my horse and to put a stethoscope to her belly to see if she will be foaling in May. I really don’t know where to look for the heartbeat, but I have a friend on Facebook who tells me it can be done.

If she is pregnant, we will call the vet to get advice on supplements, etc. It’s amazing to think she might be 8 months’ pregnant and not showing any recognizable signs. But then, Big Betty never shows that she’s pregnant, and she has had some beautiful babies with no problems.

To me, it never really feels like the year has begun until Spring arrives. Hello 2011.

thinking of summer...

2011-03-13T08:32:00.000-07:00

2011-03-09T13:47:00.000-08:00

A Farmwife honeymoon at long last

2011-03-09T13:41:00.001-08:00

The Farmer and I have finally had a honeymoon. We waited until the time was right, and that took 3 years! We are in between Christmas and lambing season, so we're safe. I left the girls in charge of the farm with a list of reminders: 1. Feed the barn cats more than they need. When they are full, another bunch will emerge from the rafters. 2. Cody and Chelsea need fresh water and food everyday. Remember that Chelsea bites females and Cody eats everything that you dont put out of his reach, including butter. 3. Check the cow and sheep feeders every day; when they are empty call the neighbour. He will refill them. Refill the water; they are big drinkers - especially the lactating mama cows. 4. Dont forget my New Years lambs in the barn. Dont overdo the sweetfeed in the creep though. They will eat til they are paralyzed. 5. Sheila the housecat will remind you she is in the basement. You will hear her singing when she hears your footsteps. She needs fresh water and food daily and lots of attention too. 6. If you have friends over, no smoking in the house or barn! We want them standing when we return. Have fun, be safe.

After arriving in Punta Cana, it took me a full day to stop worrying about the animals and children. The Farmer/Professor got into relaxation mode far quicker than I did. By the first afternoon, he had already totally forgotten his school schedule. He has to teach the day after we return, but he cant remember what. That first night, we were welcomed into the resort by a bunch of Guelph and Ottawa U students who decided to introduce us to the local shot, known as Mama Juana. Basically its cherry liquor and rum with tree bark floating in it. Scary. Tastes like cough syrup and packs a punch. I have no idea how I got to my room. The Farmer says he slung me over his shoulder but I suspect he is exaggerating. I do remember saying goodnight to the 3 flamingoes (and one duck) who live in the fountain pond outside our window before I went to bed. On Tuesday and Wednesday, we got into the beach relaxation mode, finishing the books we had started on the plane ride and working on our tans. I think its a form of meditation therapy. When our backs kinked up from doing nothing, we walked on the beach. When our tummies grumbled, we wandered over to one of the all-inclusive buffet restaurants to snack on fish, veggies, rice and fresh fruit. By Thursday we were beginning to feel we needed a bit of an adventure, so we signed up for a catamaran excursion to a national park, Saona Island. The 90-minute ride included free-flowing alcohol, but knowing my tendency toward motion sickness, I did not imbibe. I didnt feel like taking Caribbean line dancing lessons on the rolling deck either. I just sat and enjoyed the breezes while the tour guides took photos and film that they tried to sell to us later.

On the island, you walk along a white powder beach strewn with conch shells, urchins and coral. Lunch is a bbq buffet of grilled tuna, chicken, potato salad and fruit. As on the resort beach, vendors of art, jewellery and wood carvings keep trying to sell you stuff, until you learn not to make eye contact with them at all. It helps if you have a book handy to stick your nose in when they come by. The Farmer and I did buy a few pieces of the local Dominican Diamond (larimar - looks like turquoise), as well as a colourful painting of a market scene and a box of cigars. But we did our shopping at out-of-the-way places at the end of the beach and down the road from the resort where the salespeople are less pushy. Hopefully they realize they were being rewarded for that. "You're not going to change the world," the Farmer said. I had to remind him of this when later that day he gestured at yet another speedboat driver who was cutting through the snorkeling area with little regard for the swimmers he was scattering around him.

On our way back to the resort from Saona, we stopped on a sandbar in the middle of the ocean, where the Caribbean and Atlantic seas meet. There we could walk around in 2 feet of glass-clear water, looking for starfish. Our guide swam behind the boat and produced two big red ones. I suspect they were plants, and I am not convinced they were alive, but they were heavy and still had all their teeth. In fact, they are covered in them, which makes them difficult to hold.

Back at the resort, we went to see the nightly entertainment, which involved some sort of crowd-interactive dance and a lot of showgirls and acrobats. I love the way everyone is so happy to be doing their jobs here - they sing from morning to night, smile Ola at you when they pass you on the walk. It reminded me of Taiwan, the way the servers seemed to be so happy and without complaint. That and the poor sewer system that makes it against regulation to flush toilet paper. Both Taiwan and the Dominican need to invest in some quality plumbing.

On Friday, we braved the cave, which is a discotheque called Imagine. It looks like a castle from the road but that is just the entrance to an actual nightclub built into a cave. Men dressed as tribal warriors stand like statues on pedestals, guarding the door. Later those same warriors joined us and several hundred college kids on the various dance floors within the cave. Showgirls in jewelled bikinis danced on platforms between the stalactites. International club music changed to techno beats after a while and the thickening crowd made it difficult to breathe. I only lasted two hours, Im ashamed to report. The Farmer and I had to take a taxi home, unable to last to the 4am shuttle back to the resort.

On Saturday, the Farmer had his dream trip out to the deep sea for some fishing. Unfortunately, within twenty minutes of boarding the boat, his Farmwife was hanging over the edge of the boat. There I remained for two hours. But I did see a whale, through teary eyes. That was cool.

It is now our last night and I know its time to go home because my worry brain has returned. I forgot to tell the girls not to give the horse too much grain. And I hope I have given them enough time to clean up after any partying they did in our absence, and that the barn is still standing. I apologize for the absence of apostrophes; this was written on a keyboard sticking with sunscreen in the resort Internet cafe.

Mastitis is not for chickens.

2011-03-09T13:33:00.001-08:00

One of the ewes who lambed at New Year’s has mastitis. I found her one morning, in the back corner of the barn, her lamb at her side. Everyone else was outside at the feeder. She didn’t want to eat. I went and got the Farmer. He flipped her over, and revealed an udder that was swollen as hard as a bowling ball. No wonder she had no appetite. The lamb looked at me and baa’ed.

“No milk either, huh?”

I picked up the lamb and the ewe followed easily, with the shepherd’s crook around her neck. We put them in a warm lambing pen, juiced the ewe with Penicillin and fed the lamb a bottle of milk replacer, much against his will.

The two were sniffing at the sweetfeed and hay when we left them.

The next morning, the ewe hadn’t eaten so she got another shot of medicine and the lamb got another bottle. When I went in the barn that evening, the ewe greeted me. She was up, moving around, eating and drinking. I saw the lamb nurse. Everyone seems to be on the road to recovery. The ewe looked me right in the eye and baa’ed as she chewed her cud.

“I know. Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?”

I remember standing in a hot shower as a young mom, crying as my baby nursed. Those were my dairy days. I know what mastitis feels like.

A few nights later the other New Year’s lamb came running into the barn, baa’ing his fool head off. He looked around, searching the faces of the ewes around him. He couldn’t find his mother. I helped him look but I couldn’t find the ugly lamb squasher either. I caught the lamb and tried to feed him some of the bottle but he would have none of it. I told the Farmer.

“I’ll catch him and put him in with the other lamb. I’ll build them a creep. It’s time they were weaned anyway. They’re at six weeks.”

He put a gate up on blocks in the middle of the lambing pen up, and only the lambs could get under it. They feasted on sweet feed all day, until a bunch of ewes busted in the door and the little lamb escaped.

This time he found his mother, but it was still time to wean him so I tackled him and picked him up. It was like picking up a pot-bellied pig. He was hea-vy. That sweet feed had really fattened him up. Back to the barn.

As I was doing my sheep tackling and transporting, I had some unsolicited assistance. Donkey and Misty were hot on my trail. I could feel the big Belgian’s breath on my neck. The horse reached around and put her heavy nose on the lamb in my arms. She seemed to be trying to push the bawling lamb out of my arms.

“No!” I shouted at her, and she stopped. Misty snorted before tossing her mane as if to say, “I don’t care.” I watched as the horse and donkey backed away. Misty was looking quite portly, but that could just be her winter coat. I’m not convinced she looks eight months pregnant. I guess we’ll find out eventually. But for now, we have a stethoscope that we borrowed from the family nurse, and we’re going to see what if we can google “how to find a foal heartbeat.”

Let me call you Sweetheart on Feb 14

2011-02-14T08:23:00.000-08:00

“Will you have a tea with your meal, sweetheart?” the voice of the elderly gentleman sitting beside us in the diner caught my ear.

“Yes, I believe I will have a tea. To take the chill off,” answered the diminutive blue-haired woman.

I smiled at the Farmer, tipped my head and rolled my eyes in the direction of the couple beside us.

“What?” my partially deaf husband asked.

The woman spread the Ottawa Sun on the table between them.

“Is there anything in the newspaper, sweetheart?” he asked his wife.

“Nothing,” she answered.

I smiled, catching the Farmer’s eye.

“Stop,” he hissed. “You aren’t supposed to be listening to them. They think they’re having a private conversation.”

I knew it. But they spoke loudly and I couldn’t help tuning in.

“Are there no headlines, sweetheart?”

“They say B.C. is still the best Canadian city in which to live.”

“I once wanted to live in B.C.” (pause) “I suppose it’s too late now.”

“Yes. We’re too old to pick up our lives and move to B.C.”

“We would have to tell everyone where we moved to. We would have to change all our identification, health cards, cheques.”

“And as soon as we got there we would have to find ourselves a doctor.”

“Well, sweetheart, I suppose we’re okay right where we are.”

“Yes, we’re okay.”

Their meal came and it was quiet for a while. The Farmer and I had our own conversation, centred around plans to wean lambs, and to train our children to take care of things while we are gone on our long-awaited honeymoon. It’s been three years since we married. I’m pretty sure the honeymoon never would have happened if I hadn’t taken the lead and bought the package as a Christmas gift to my husband.

When we were married, we were far too busy merging families and moving me into the farm to go away on a trip. But this year we have the lambs coming in April and the foal coming in May. Our calves have all been born and they are thriving. It’s the perfect time for me to kidnap my husband and take him somewhere warm. And I think he’s getting excited about it. He’s already sporting a tan, as I convinced him to visit the Silver Bullet at Du Soleil once a week before we hit the beach.

The couple beside us had finished their meal, and their conversation started up again.

“Will you have some dessert, sweetheart?”

“No, I don’t think so.”
She started leafing through the paper again as she sipped her tea. “Here’s the Sunshine Girl.”

“Well now. She certainly has long hair. Look. It goes all the way down to there. That can’t be right.”

“It’s probably not her hair.”

“Well, sweetheart, I do believe we are finished.”

“Yes, we’d best be goin’.”

I watched as they slowly got to their feet and he helped her on with her coat. He led her down the restaurant aisle with one hand on the small of her back.

I looked at the Farmer. “When we’re that age, will you call me sweetheart six times in one meal?”

He winked at me. “Come on darlin’. Let’s get back to work.”

“Thanks for lunch, sweetheart,” I smiled, as I felt the pressure of his big hand on the small of my back.

Young Angus Admires His Growing Brood

2011-02-08T06:52:00.001-08:00

In the last month we have had three lambs and four calves born. Thankfully none of the births were very difficult (the Farmer only had to pull one of them). After we figured out that the calves were lacking selenium, we got everyone back on track. Except for the one lamb that we lost to a squashing incident, everyone is doing just fine.

Which is a good thing, because I don’t know what we would do if we had a real problem with the cows. We just aren’t set up for it. Thankfully, when the calves wouldn’t suckle, our cows stood fairly still and allowed the Farmer to steal some of the colostrum to feed their young. If they didn’t stand, we would have had to put them in some sort of stockade until mother and child each learned their role. We don’t have a stockade. Most of our feeders in the lambing room have now been busted into toothpicks by the cows and their big blockheads. What we need is some kind of heavy-duty metal apparatus. It will take a while for our herd to grow, especially if our cows keep having bull calves instead of heifers. But we need to be ready.

Each mother and child duo was kept inside for the first week after the birth. Our lambing pens are so mucked up now; you would think a rodeo happened in there. This gorgeous mild winter weather is perfect for introducing the calves to snow. They jump and play and moo with delight. And they are learning not to stand too close to the barn, where snowdrifts occasionally slide down off the roof onto their heads. So far the bull is very attentive but the Farmer says he isn’t really connected to his young; he is just curious of the newcomers to the barnyard. I’m not sure I agree. After each birth, Young Angus spent at least an hour pawing at the door to the lambing room, mooing to get inside. I think he knows they are his babies, and he is interested in them. Now that they are all outside, he seems to check on them, as if he is counting heads. If everyone wanders out to eat from the bale and one calf remains inside the stall, he moos for it to follow. I don’t know if it is routine to separate the bull from the new mothers and calves, but so far there doesn’t seem to be a problem. If Angus starts “bullying” the babies or harassing the mothers, we will have to put him somewhere else. That should be interesting, because he hates to be alone.

When we got Angus, Dennis Wilson the cattle drover delivered him to our farm. The back of the truck opened and out hopped wee Angus, our little black bull. The Farmer was a little surprised by the bull’s diminutive stature, but he figured the bull would grow quickly.

That first night, the Farmer put Angus in a stall that he had specially reinforced for the young bull. The cows were on the other side of the barn, in a separate area. Whenever we get a new cow, we always keep them in the barn for the first week, so they learn they are home. That was the plan with Young Angus as well.

Later that first night we went out to the barn to check on our new bull. He was no longer in his pen. We shone our flashlights in corners around the barnyard, searching for the newcomer. Finally, when we approached the line of cows lounging beside the hay feeder, we noticed a small black lump tucked tightly in the middle of them. Angus had found his new home. And he hasn’t left his girls since. I hate to think what would happen if we had to separate him from his new family. He would not be happy.

2011-01-30T08:31:00.001-08:00

Sheila Shortfat the Housecat

2011-01-29T15:17:00.000-08:00

The plan was that the two kittens would keep each other company while they were in the
house being treated for their various viruses. For the first month, that plan worked very
well. They came when I called, and I found that if I wore fingerless gloves I could put
drops in their eyes and antibiotics in their mouths without having my hands scratched to
oblivion.
The one I called Shortfat really wasn’t very sick – her eyes cleared up in a couple of
days. But she had to stay in the basement to keep the smaller, weaker grey and white
kitten from feeling scared and alone.
Then, one day, the eyes cleared up and the breathing was back to normal. The kittens
were cured. And they had no intention of going outside. First of all, in the two months
since they had come in, winter had arrived in full force. They had not grown a coat of
winter fur and they were quite shocked by the cold. Secondly, they were now considered
outsiders and threats to the other cats who put up a fight every time I tried to re-introduce
them to the pack.
I put a poster in the vet clinic and grocery store. Someone called and made an
appointment to see the kittens. While I was at work, my daughter adopted out the grey
and white kitten, the smaller and weaker of the two. Shortfat remained. Again I tried to
shove her outside to join the other cats in the barn. She would go and explore, but within
minutes she would be back at the door, screaming for re-entry.
So now we have a housecat. “How did this happen?” asked the Farmer. “I don’t
remember discussing this.”
Well, neither do I. It just sort of happened. I’m allergic to cats. I’m not supposed to have
them in my house. But Sheila (we felt she needed a real name) adopted us. Now instead
of mousing and playing with her friends all day, she entertains herself in the basement
while we’re at work. When I come home I find her collection of treasures at the bottom
of the stairs: a pompom from an old winter toque, an eyeball from a discarded teddy bear;
a crumbled piece of duct tape from my husband’s workbench. She even has an old ratty
baseball that she uses as a sort of yoga-pilates ball, rolling herself over it on the floor.
And the grooming. Sheila spends hours grooming herself every day. I’ve flea-sprayed her
and flea collared her, but she continues to nibble and comb and pick and bite, constantly.
She has white fur, so a flea should be pretty easy to spot upon inspection. I don’t think
she has any. She has just become rather obsessive-compulsive since she became an
indoor cat.
Oh, and thanks to Bill Gooch for giving my cat a taste of Whiskas-in-the-pouch. She is
now addicted. And doesn’t wish to eat anything else. The only place I have found this
food is at the dollar store. Two for a dollar. And she wants at least three of these pouches
a day. I also keep dry food in her bowl, because if it is empty she complains.
This is one spoiled cat.
In the spring we are hoping she will venture out-of-doors once again. Then again, we
might miss her lying in wait around corners to ambush our ankles as we pass by.

Ewe are Despicable

2011-01-29T15:16:00.001-08:00

I knew there was a reason why I hated that ewe. I recognized her obnoxious bellow as the loudest of the herd. She always waited until you were right up close to her, filling her water bucket or feeder, and then she would just holler, right in your ear. But there is another reason to dislike this sheep. She is a lamb squasher.

It’s all coming back to me now. Last year she had two lambs. One was very weak and I had to feed it a few times a day with a bottle until it could feed itself. Then came the fateful morning when I went out to feed my lamb and found her squashed, flat as a pancake in the middle of the pen. That stupid ewe had squashed her.

This year the ewe only had one lamb – a big, healthy male. If she lay down on him, he would probably be able to wriggle out from underneath her.

But we put another ewe with her little twins in the pen with the squasher. Eenie and Meenie had been doing quite well, despite their diminutive stature. Until that fat ewe lay down on the smallest of them.

Why does the ewe do this? She has plenty of room in her pen. She is not overly large or unable to locate the lambs under her girth. Perhaps she feels that she doesn’t want to care for more than one lamb and so she purposely squashes the other. Or maybe she routinely eliminates the runt of the litter to allow more milk for the strong lambs. Of course, in this case it wasn’t even her lamb so that’s hardly fair.

I googled the problem but have yet to find an answer. I find this particular “survival of the fittest” behaviour quite despicable.

It was interesting watching the cow, Ginger, when her calf was weak and unable to eat. She spent hours trying to nudge the calf to her feet. After more than a day with little success, however, Ginger began to show her frustration. Instead of standing still so that the calf could find the milk, Ginger would slowly turn in circles to avoid contact. It was as though she had rejected the sick calf.

Thankfully, after receiving that milk drenching and selenium injection, the calf’s suckling instinct returned, it had more energy and was able to latch on to its mother. They were able to bond and appear to be doing well now.

Mocha had her calf a few days later and we ushered the two of them into the lambing area to be warm – with Young Angus the bull hot on our heels. He pawed at the door to the lambing room and bawled. He is very interested in his two new sons.

Mocha’s calf had no problem nursing. That was a relief.

And now it is Big Betty’s turn. (Or, as the Farmer has named, her, Ugly Betty). I don’t think we will be able to fit her into a lambing pen, but we might be able to find a sheltered space in the middle of the barn to protect her new calf from the cold when it is born. It just might be a bit of a rodeo getting her in there.

Introducing...Albert.

2011-01-15T16:51:00.000-08:00

A bull calf named Albert

2011-01-15T16:49:00.001-08:00

I was in the barn feeding the New Year lambs when the Farmer announced that Ginger’s water had broken and her labour had begun.

She made soft mooing grunts as she shifted her weight and tried to get comfortable. The sac was visible, protruding from under her tail, which she held up in a careful arc.

“This could take hours, hon,” the Farmer said, as he dragged the gate across the opening to lock Ginger into the pen.

We wandered back to the house and puttered around for an hour. I volunteered to go out and check on the impending birth.

When I got to the barn, I saw Ginger was standing in a puddle of her own making. A small black calf with a white face peeked out at me from behind her legs.

“Well hullo! Welcome!” I called. He had obviously just been born and had yet to stand. Ginger licked, nudged and muttered to her new calf, trying to get him to stand up. Finally he organized his knobby legs underneath him and stood. And promptly fell back down in the muck. Ginger nudged him again, lifting him onto his knees with her heavy head.

Every time I spoke to him, he turned in the direction of my voice. Ginger kept up her encouraging monologue. I decided to be quiet.

The commotion in the barn attracted the bull, Young Angus. The big black bull stepped softly up to the side of the pen and peered in. He mooed low and long. The calf staggered over to him and Ginger followed, holding him up with the strong, Velcro licks of her tongue. I watched as Angus craned his neck as far as he could into the pen and reached his tongue out to lick the calf. My camera batteries had died at this point, otherwise I would have a video of the event. It was very nice to witness.

The next day, the calf was wandering around more steadily on his feet and although I had not witnessed him nursing yet I assumed he had, otherwise he wouldn’t have had the strength to walk around.

After work that night I went back to the barn to check on the calf. He was lying in the corner, and Ginger was mooing at him, nudging him to get up. I spoke softly to her and she looked at me. I swear I could see worry in her eyes. I went back to the house. “Did you see the calf nursing today? Because I haven’t seen him eat yet and now he is just lying there.”

I headed to the basement to mix up some milk replacer for a bottle. The Farmer wrestled the mother and child into a lambing pen (wish I had witnessed that feat) and fed it a bit of the bottle. It didn’t want to suck. Its tongue just lolled around and it struggled against the rubber nipple in its mouth. But we got some milk into its belly. We fed it more before turning in that night, and I was up before dawn the next morning to feed it again. Ginger just watched as I tried to help her baby. She grunted soft little moos as a running commentary and her ears twitched with worry. But she didn’t mind us touching her calf, as long as she could still put her nose on him. I think that’s the closest we have ever been to Ginger, our skittish cow.

As I was feeding the calf, I noticed its nose was bright red and its eyelids were pink. In sheep, that is a sign of a deficiency of some sort. The Farmer/Professor spoke to a friend at the college and discovered that sure enough, the calf needed selenium in order to have a healthy suckling reflex. He went to the co-op to buy some supplies. The next feedings were done with a drench (the calf is made to swallow a tube and milk is poured directly into its stomach) and I couldn’t bear to watch the uncomfortable procedure so I stayed in the house.

The next day, after the selenium shot and a few drenches of milk, the calf was up and heading for its mother. As I write this, on Saturday, it has a spring in its step and it is nursing normally. Many thanks to Albert Koekkoek at the University of Guelph for giving us the advice we needed to save our little bull calf. We decided to name him Albert, after you!

From Oliver with Love

2011-01-15T16:48:00.003-08:00

Thank you to everyone who sent cards, emails, phone messages and texts full of warm wishes over the holidays. It was a wonderful Christmas on the Fisher farm.

One of the notes I received was from Stinky the kitten, who has been renamed Oliver by his adoptive humans. Here it is, in its entirety:

“Still tired from the move – though adjusting well to my new digs.

From what I can tell, the “holiday” season is upon us. This time of year seems very special – the landlords have set up a beautiful tree and have decorated it with wonderful “toys” for me to bat and swat around the living room. Honestly, every time I knock down one of these “toys”, the landlords pick it back up and return it to the tree – I’m assuming for my later amusement.

I’m enjoying spending all this quality time with my new found family. They seem nice but, if I were to make a small comment, they’re a little cheap with the treats for my taste. Don’t get me wrong, they feed me well, but all I want are those treats!!! I could eat them all day every day - if only they would let me. I’ve started meowing in protest … I’ll let you know how that works for me.

The new landlords are cool. They pretty much let me do what I want. One of them even looks like me – though he’s much bigger than me and makes these weird barking noises - his name is Digory and we sometimes sleep together. Contrary to popular belief, I’ve never woken up with any fleas. He’s a veteran so, for the time being, I tend to copy his moves and his sounds – unfortunately, without much success. The best I can manage sounds like a guttural sneeze. The other two landlords think it’s cute when I do this but they also really hope I’m not coming down with something.

Last week they took me outside to play. Let’s just say, things were not how I remembered them. First of all, there was all this white stuff on the ground – I’m not going to lie to you, it gave me paws. Second, there were no lambs, donkeys or horses anywhere. Being new to the area; I chose to stick close to home. Besides, I don’t want to wander too far from my treats!!!

Nowadays, I get most of my sleep (see picture hereunder) while the landlords are away. Playtime mostly happens when the landlords get home from this thing called “work.” (Whatever it is, it must be fun because they always seem to be in a great mood when they get home to me) Because I feel that playtime is never long enough, I tend to indulge in a few extra rounds at night. That’s when the landlords are subjected to the wrath of my Santa Claws. For some reason, however, this behaviour is being discouraged.

Overall, things are great and I’m fitting in quite nicely in this new household.

Please extend my holiday “best wishes” to everyone on the farm (especially my brothers and sisters).

Meow for now, Stinky – a.k.a. Oliver.”

We have two more kittens in the house ready to be adopted, if anyone is interested. Please feel free to visit my blog: www.theaccidentalfarmwife.blogspot.com to see their photos.

As we head into the New Year, it’s time to clear out the cobwebs, clean out the closets and attempt to stick to our resolutions. I will be doing my annual donation of “stuff I don’t need” to charity, and getting down on bended knee to dust baseboards. My resolution is to avoid sugar. Let’s see if I can make that one last until at least Easter.

New Year's Baby!

2011-01-01T10:45:00.000-08:00

Dining Al Fresco

2010-12-28T14:54:00.000-08:00

Farmwife-in-waiting

2010-12-28T14:38:00.001-08:00

The lambing pens are lined with hay, waiting for our Christmas babies to arrive. The rams obviously did some work before we locked them up in August, because there is a ewe or two with a distinctly swelling udder. They are “bagging up”, as the Farmer says. That is a rather indelicate way to describe the situation. Most of our ewes are due to lamb in April.

Our cows are also due to give birth any day now. Ginger, Betty, Julie and Mocha each took turns dancing with Young Angus when he arrived last spring. However, according to the Farmer, they are not bagging up. But that doesn’t mean anything. Betty didn’t bag up the last time she gave birth to a huge calf either. She just let out a long, low mooo one morning and twenty minutes later she was licking her newborn clean.

In order to make things as comfortable as possible for our four bovine mothers-to-be, the Farmer has closed them off in their own field on the far side of the barn, There they have their own water supply, an open pasture and part of the barn for shelter.

This weekend the Farmer decided to cut the huge beams that make up the half-wall in the turkey pen. This large, open room is ideal for the cows, and now they can get in. Within half an hour of the Farmer’s renovations, Ginger and Julie had moved in to the new space. They are the smart ones, I think.

The cows are feeding now on wrapped hay that smells like whiskey. The fermentation process has left the silage rich and scented. They chew slowly, savouring the flavour.

So we will go out in the morning and evening now to check on the animals. I hope they don’t all give birth at once. I hope things go without complications, as planned. We selected a bull that would produce smaller calves that grow quickly after birth. I don’t want to deal with any calves getting stuck during birth when I’m the only one at home. It would be just my luck to have this sort of thing happen.

Misty is supposed to be pregnant, but we still don’t have that confirmed. Perhaps when we have the vet in to assist with the cow births, we will get him to do a preg check on Misty at the same time.

I have to go to Rooney’s to stock up on calf bottles and milk replacer. I keep this at the ready in case a ewe gives birth to multiples. Inevitably there will be a runt lacking the rooting instinct, and I will have to feed it with the bottle. During the first 24 hours, that milk must be colostrum straight from the mother, or the chance of survival is very slim. As much as I try, however, I cannot get enough milk from a ewe to fill an eye-dropper. The Farmer has to climb into the pen, tackle the mother and steal her milk. He can get an inch or two of colostrum in no time, and then I fill the big syringe to feed the baby.

Ideally, after a week or so, the runt will regain his strength and catch on to the routine of feeding from his own mother. If he doesn’t, I have to train him to feed from the bottle that I strap to the side of the pen. This method has worked, in the past. We are in the business of growing healthy sheep here.

If the cows need help feeding their babies, we will supplement their feedings also. I will buy my supplies, and wait. They can come now – I am ready.

A Tale of Two Kitties

2010-12-28T14:37:00.000-08:00

Attempting to slow down life

2010-12-28T14:36:00.001-08:00

I don’t know how life suddenly became so busy. We don’t have kids to ferry around to hockey or soccer; only one remains at home and she is pretty self-sufficient. We have less than a fifteen minute commute to work in Kemptville, and we spend the majority of each weekend at home. Still, life goes whizzing by.

Some of our best moments are spent at the dinner table, in the garden, or in the barn. Just living, working, talking together. The best memories are not built in front of the television or computer.

The computer is a necessary evil, keeping us connected to work and friends and news in the rest of the world. But I think we can do without the TV. In 2011, the Farmer and I are going to look at our life to see how we might attempt to slow it down by simplifying things a bit.

I love living in a region with four distinct seasons – but they mark the passage of time in a way that clearly shows you how fast life is passing. Last winter we were praying for a dear friend with brain cancer. This winter we are burying him.

It’s been almost three years since we lost my dad. Three years. But as I watched the movie “The Bucket List” last week, the tears ran down my face. It is very difficult to recover from the loss of a permanent fixture in one’s heart.

I have friends entering menopause, fighting cancer, burying their husbands. Yesterday we were in high school.

Our lives are a blip on the screen. The best we can do is to surround ourselves with positive people, to keep traveling up hill, and to pause to appreciate the moments.

This morning my mother called to tell me she would not be at Sunday dinner. Instead she would be visiting with her own 95-year-old mother Vicky, who had recently suffered a fall. Vicky was only slightly hurt in the fall, thank goodness, but it put things into perspective. Occasionally she falls down and has to remain on the floor for several hours until she is discovered. She has left the water running in the bathroom for the entire day. She left the milk to burn on the stove. It is becoming unsafe for Vicky to continue to live on her own. At times like this, I wish we were Italian.

If we were Italian, I might be a stay-at-home Mom, and we could move our aging parents and grandparents into the spare wing of the house. There they would enjoy their golden years, and pass their wisdom on to the younger generation – our children and grandchildren.

But alas, we are not Italian. We work outside the home, and we are not able to move our aging family members in with us. It is time to find a new home for Vicky.

Vicky has been through some hard winters, living in a little schoolhouse in Quebec where her husband hunted, she gardened and they traded their goods for eggs at the farm down the road. As a single mom of four boys and one girl, Vicky learned to be thrifty, resourceful, creative and optimistic. When she doesn’t understand or cannot hear what you are saying, she giggles. She doesn’t get frustrated or upset – she just laughs. That’s Vicky.

And this gorgeous woman, who still paints her nails to match her russet-red hair, deserves the very best for the last few seasons of her long life.

Stinky Finds a Home

2010-12-11T07:18:00.000-08:00

2010-12-11T07:12:00.000-08:00

I was raised with housepets, a dog and a cat. Moving into the farm three years ago, I had to adjust to having many “pets”, none of whom stayed in the house. It’s been a going concern for me. I’m always worried about the animals and how they are faring out of doors.

I’m quite happy to have the animals living outside, because I tend to be allergic to most of them. I do let them in to visit quite often, however. We have one cat that can open the sliding door himself. We often see Tiger strolling around the kitchen (accompanied by a swarm of mosquitoes in the summer).

In winter the cats disappear for long periods of time into the depths of the barn, where they burrow into the big round bales of hay together for warmth. The horse warms a family of cats in the stable too, and we often have those ones wandering up a well-beaten path through the snow to the house.

Occasionally we will have a barn cat that is extremely friendly. They will allow themselves to be petted and held. At the moment we have three or four of these tame little critters and I would like to see them adopted into good homes before it gets really cold outside.

Saturday was Stinky’s lucky day.

I didn’t think the little grey-and-white kitten had a name, but apparently he was dubbed Stinky by our daughter one day. I don’t think he is smellier than any of the other cats – he just gets close enough for us to smell him, while the rest keep their distance.

In any case, it was Stinky’s sparkling personality and not his scent that got him adopted on Saturday. Now he lives with a nice young couple and their beagle dog near Oxford Station. Latest reports claim that he is adjusting well to his new lifestyle, even if he has to share the home with a dog.

Controlling the cat population is a continuing battle, and I can’t afford surgery for all of them. Many times I have said, there must be someone out there who has developed a contraceptive for cats. Well, there is. http://www.petpublishing.com/catkit/articles/oral.shtml

According to Pet Publishing’s website: Michelle Meister-Weisbarth, 32, a third-year student at Virginia-Maryland Regional College of Veterinary Medicine (VMRCVM), has genetically engineered a strain of Salmonella, one that does not produce disease, for use as an oral contraceptive vaccine with female cats. Her creation is an immunocontraceptive vaccine, i.e., one that prompts a cat's immune system to produce antibodies that prevent sperm from fertilizing her eggs.

"Immunocontraceptive vaccines have been around for a while," says Meister-Weisbarth, "but no one had married the idea of our feral cat problem with the vaccine. The key is to make the vaccine species-specific so you can put it in food pellets, drop them as bait, and not worry about blocking fertilization in any other animal."

Well, I’ll be. Are they looking for test cats? And if it has been around for a while, why haven’t I heard of it?? What a great idea.

There are still a few kinks to work out, of course, but it looks as though the vaccine will be available on the American market, at least, within the next 5 to 10 years.

Imagine the impact this vaccine will have on the feral cat population. Animal shelters will benefit hugely from this development. Not to mention the farmers with loveable barn cats like Stinky, who was recently given the more noble name of Oliver.

Steve's Day Out

2010-12-01T05:58:00.000-08:00

We had had our new Suffolk ram Steve for one week. It was time to set him free amongst the ladies. But first we had to collect all the lambs that would soon be going to market.

I got called in to work Sunday afternoon but – wonder of wonders – the farm work waited for me until I returned. After Sunday dinner (and several glasses of full-bodied red wine), the Farmer and I headed to the barn where our flock was barricaded. Our intention was to sort sheep.

The ewes had to somehow be separated from the flock and ushered out the door, while the lambs were retained inside the barn. This proved to be no easy task. The ewes were not going willingly into that dark night. The Farmer decided to start pulling them by the hind leg, backwards. He started with the largest ewes, stalking them as they munched hay, then grabbing at the knobby little sticks that held up their girth. Once, twice and three times he was tossed into the hay by the biggest ewes. I couldn’t help laughing. The sheep were taking advantage of his exhaustion and slight impairment. I decided to help.

I found that if you grabbed both hind legs at the same time, the sheep would simply run backwards to help you out, sort of in a reverse wheelbarrow game. It worked quite effectively, until I started laughing and got myself off balance. Then I too got tossed into the dirt. Finally all the ewes were outside and the lambs were happily trapped in the barn, with a fresh load of hay and water. We went out to see Steve. I shooed the ram into the alley between the pens and helped the Farmer to hold him there.

While we held Steve up against the gate with our legs, the Farmer fastened a fresh blue cube of chalk to the ram’s halter.

“I can never remember how these things go on,” he muttered as he struggled to connect the clasps around Steve’s barrel chest. For the next ten minutes we held Steve tight as we tried different buckling combinations with the halter. Finally we got it on him in a fashion that would not soon be undone. Steve groaned. And grunted. And belched. He was growing impatient of this game already.

We opened the gate and pushed him out into the neighbouring room, only to discover that the last round bale of hay I opened had unrolled and hung down in front of us, blocking our path. Together we pushed Steve out through the curtain of hay and toward the open barn door. Outside, it was dark. There wasn’t a yard lamp or moonlight to brighten his path. He didn’t know what was out there. I could tell he was scared.

Why we decided to turn Steve out at night, I don’t know. In hindsight, it wasn’t the greatest idea. For the next hour, Steve tried to cozy up to the ewes who were outside the barn. They liked the smell of him but they weren’t too sure about his unique black face or his jingling collar bell. He was still running around after them when we stumbled back to the house to bed. It was 10pm.

The next morning, Steve was nowhere to be found. He had obviously tried to get back into the shelter of the barn, because the gate to the lambs’ pen was open and all of our captives had been set free. Before and after work the Farmer searched for the lost ram, listening for the jingling of his collar bell. We couldn’t imagine Steve would head for the bushes, as sheep are afraid of the dark unknown of wooded areas. We assumed he was in the cornfield or down in the meadow, but we couldn’t find him. Finally the Farmer called our neighbour, who also had sheep. Sure enough, for the past day, he had been hosting Steve.

Now our Suffolk ram is back in the barn where he wants to be, and he has some new roommates. The Farmer put some ewes in there with him, and hopefully they will become better acquainted with each other. After a while those ewes will switch places with another lot, until the whole flock has visited with Steve.

Hopefully by the time we let him out again, he will have grown so fond of his ladies that he will not want to leave.