Thursday, October 30, 2008
A Tale of Three Kitties
I was just starting dinner when I heard one of the cats growling outside. Thinking that it was Hitler (our mustached male) attacking one of his siblings again, I threw open the screen door and went stomping out to scare him off. The growling was coming from the grove of wildflowers beside the pool. I peeked over the side and discovered that it wasn’t a cat fighting or mating. It was a cat giving birth.
The mama, one of our kittens from the summer of ’07 (who had already given birth this spring) was making guttural noises to comfort her kittens as they were being born. She looked up at me in between licks as she washed her two babies clean.
Just then I heard a squeaking from the other side of the porch. In behind our freezer, I found another kitten. The mother must have started over there before she went off looking for a more comfortable birthing room. To make matters worse, the other two were now crying. The mother was nowhere to be found.
I allowed Paulina to don gardening gloves and move the lone kitten over to its siblings, where it could share body heat until the mother came back. If she came back.
The life of a barn cat is a mysterious one, to be sure. It is often born in hiding, making its existence known only when it is old enough to come to the back porch for the food that I put out to supplement its diet of field mice and barn pests. Many of the cats that frequent the porch eventually wander off to some unknown fate, or if they are male, they might go to another farm to stake out a new territory. We never see cats that have died. Normally, they are very discreet about their cycle of life.
The Farmer stepped up on the porch on his way back from the barn. He wanted to know what was going on, so I showed him the kittens.
“Now, we just have to let nature take its course,” he said. “The mother is probably just out looking for a new place to live. She’ll be back.”
But he looked doubtful.
Just before bed, I tiptoed out to check on the kittens again. It was dropping to 9 degrees and I was pretty sure they wouldn’t make it if their mother didn’t return. I didn’t want to take the kittens in the house, however, in case the mother did come back. When I peeked in on the sleeping kittens, I was surprised to see that someone had wrapped them in a soft pink rag. Especially since the girls were already gone to bed…
The next morning, the kittens were alive but squeaking with hunger. We warmed up some cream and fed it to them one by one with an eye-dropper. I was amazed at the strength of their will. They clutched at the dropper and opened their mouths, each one of them the size of a field mouse. I kept telling myself (and the girls, for Annie and Polly had joined me) that we could only do so much. If the mother, who had returned, didn’t claim them, they would likely still die.
The day was an especially warm one, and it gave the kittens new energy. When we returned to the farm at the end of the day, we found that the kittens had wandered out of the blanket that we had placed on the porch, and one of them had fallen into the dog’s yard on the other side. I wondered if she had been carried or if she had truly just wandered blindly off the edge into oblivion. I hadn’t thought they could walk yet. I guess I was wrong.
We tried offering the kittens to their mother, but she wasn’t interested except to lick the milk off their whiskers. We tucked them in to the blanket again, and hoped they would make it through another night.
On the third day, Paulina and I were feeding the kittens cream again when Annie informed us that “most cats are lactose intolerant”. She grabbed the mother by the scruff of the neck, and held her down while she placed one kitten at a time on her belly to nurse. The mother looked like she truly couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Annie cursed the mother for kicking, and continued with her monitoring of the forced feeding until each kitten had a belly full of mother’s milk. I told Annie that I didn’t think swearing at the mama cat was going to make her come to her senses.
About an hour later, the mother crept over to where the kittens were nestling on the porch and picked them up one by one to carry them off to a new hiding place.
This Tale of Three Kitties is not over yet, apparently.
The mama, one of our kittens from the summer of ’07 (who had already given birth this spring) was making guttural noises to comfort her kittens as they were being born. She looked up at me in between licks as she washed her two babies clean.
Just then I heard a squeaking from the other side of the porch. In behind our freezer, I found another kitten. The mother must have started over there before she went off looking for a more comfortable birthing room. To make matters worse, the other two were now crying. The mother was nowhere to be found.
I allowed Paulina to don gardening gloves and move the lone kitten over to its siblings, where it could share body heat until the mother came back. If she came back.
The life of a barn cat is a mysterious one, to be sure. It is often born in hiding, making its existence known only when it is old enough to come to the back porch for the food that I put out to supplement its diet of field mice and barn pests. Many of the cats that frequent the porch eventually wander off to some unknown fate, or if they are male, they might go to another farm to stake out a new territory. We never see cats that have died. Normally, they are very discreet about their cycle of life.
The Farmer stepped up on the porch on his way back from the barn. He wanted to know what was going on, so I showed him the kittens.
“Now, we just have to let nature take its course,” he said. “The mother is probably just out looking for a new place to live. She’ll be back.”
But he looked doubtful.
Just before bed, I tiptoed out to check on the kittens again. It was dropping to 9 degrees and I was pretty sure they wouldn’t make it if their mother didn’t return. I didn’t want to take the kittens in the house, however, in case the mother did come back. When I peeked in on the sleeping kittens, I was surprised to see that someone had wrapped them in a soft pink rag. Especially since the girls were already gone to bed…
The next morning, the kittens were alive but squeaking with hunger. We warmed up some cream and fed it to them one by one with an eye-dropper. I was amazed at the strength of their will. They clutched at the dropper and opened their mouths, each one of them the size of a field mouse. I kept telling myself (and the girls, for Annie and Polly had joined me) that we could only do so much. If the mother, who had returned, didn’t claim them, they would likely still die.
The day was an especially warm one, and it gave the kittens new energy. When we returned to the farm at the end of the day, we found that the kittens had wandered out of the blanket that we had placed on the porch, and one of them had fallen into the dog’s yard on the other side. I wondered if she had been carried or if she had truly just wandered blindly off the edge into oblivion. I hadn’t thought they could walk yet. I guess I was wrong.
We tried offering the kittens to their mother, but she wasn’t interested except to lick the milk off their whiskers. We tucked them in to the blanket again, and hoped they would make it through another night.
On the third day, Paulina and I were feeding the kittens cream again when Annie informed us that “most cats are lactose intolerant”. She grabbed the mother by the scruff of the neck, and held her down while she placed one kitten at a time on her belly to nurse. The mother looked like she truly couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Annie cursed the mother for kicking, and continued with her monitoring of the forced feeding until each kitten had a belly full of mother’s milk. I told Annie that I didn’t think swearing at the mama cat was going to make her come to her senses.
About an hour later, the mother crept over to where the kittens were nestling on the porch and picked them up one by one to carry them off to a new hiding place.
This Tale of Three Kitties is not over yet, apparently.
Shepherding in the Season of Mud
Walk into the main room of our barn and you sink up to your ankles in muck. A quicksand mixture of manure and mud threatens to suck the Wellies off your feet if you aren’t careful. I don’t know if it is the incredible rainfall we have had this summer, or the addition of two rather large cows that has made the barn floor so unbelievably mucky, but it has never been this wet before. Personally, I’m looking at the cows…
The mud has turned the lambs’ wool brown and I can’t find the lamb with the black “sock” anymore. They all have black socks now. A friend visiting from the city was most disappointed the other day to see that none of our sheep are white. I had to show her photos to prove that they once were white as Simpson’s clouds.
When one of our girls was just a wee thing, she asked her Dad, “does the wool on the sheep shrink when it gets wet, just like my sweater did?” You would think it did, the way they tear off across the pasture, in search of shelter from the rain, as the first drops fall. They seem to have a baa-rometer that tells them when it’s time to head for the hay. (Sorry; that was a bad one).
The self-filling water trough is also in the barn. Surrounded by muck. It’s so pitiful, watching the lambs trying to pick their way through the slime for a sip of water.
The cows are so heavy; they sink in up to their armpits. For the most part, they have been putting off drinking water for as long as they can. They have become resourceful too, stealing the water from Chelsea the sheepdog’s bucket when she is dozing in the sand around the corner.
The Farmer took stock of the situation and decided that we will need another load of gravel outside the barn so he can get his tractor in to scoop out the poop. But in the meantime, the ground is too soft for the gravel truck after all that rain. We have to resort to temporary measures.
First, he set up two more self-watering troughs outside the barn. One of them is for Betty and Ginger (the cows), which have now been locked in the front field so that they don’t keep going in the mucky barn. They have access to shelter, where the turkey coop is located. They just have to put up with a bit of gobbling in stereo when the sun rises in the morning. They just “moo” back at the turkeys, as if they are telling them to shut up.
Last week, we realized it was time to give the sheep their needles again. The lady at Rooney’s said it has been a bad season for parasites, but our sheep haven’t had any, so we are crediting the monthly regime of Ivomec anti-worm medicine for that success.
As the barn is so disgustingly wet and gross, we decided to herd the sheep back into the place of their birth – the lambing pens. The Farmer just opened the door and in they went, followed by a curious Donkey who didn’t want to be left out of anything. He found himself locked in a pen with several ewes while we sorted and needled the rest of the sheep, one group at a time.
Donkey just stood there and sniffed the feeding troughs and the floor and tested the pen gate with his teeth. Pretended he meant to be locked in with the sheep. But after a few minutes, when he realized the sheep were being needled and released one by one to the pasture, he started to worry, I’m sure. He shifted his weight back and forth on his legs, snorted hay dust out of his nose, and cocked his ears several times. While he was doing this, I was manning the gate to his pen. I was using it as a barricade between the freshly stuck lambs that were fussing and loudly complaining about the sting of their injections, and the ewes on the other side. I kept opening and closing his gate to freedom, while he carefully inched closer to me. Finally he was just inside the gate, with his velvet nose on my hand. I took a moment to give him some attention, picking the cobwebs out of his eyelashes. Then the Farmer told me to stand back, and let him out. He did not go quietly out of that lambing pen. He skipped and kicked his feet up, bashing the wall of the pen and the door on his way out. What a fuss. He’s such a Drama King.
All of us on the farm are looking forward to the ground drying up so we can get some hay into the barn before winter.
-30-
The mud has turned the lambs’ wool brown and I can’t find the lamb with the black “sock” anymore. They all have black socks now. A friend visiting from the city was most disappointed the other day to see that none of our sheep are white. I had to show her photos to prove that they once were white as Simpson’s clouds.
When one of our girls was just a wee thing, she asked her Dad, “does the wool on the sheep shrink when it gets wet, just like my sweater did?” You would think it did, the way they tear off across the pasture, in search of shelter from the rain, as the first drops fall. They seem to have a baa-rometer that tells them when it’s time to head for the hay. (Sorry; that was a bad one).
The self-filling water trough is also in the barn. Surrounded by muck. It’s so pitiful, watching the lambs trying to pick their way through the slime for a sip of water.
The cows are so heavy; they sink in up to their armpits. For the most part, they have been putting off drinking water for as long as they can. They have become resourceful too, stealing the water from Chelsea the sheepdog’s bucket when she is dozing in the sand around the corner.
The Farmer took stock of the situation and decided that we will need another load of gravel outside the barn so he can get his tractor in to scoop out the poop. But in the meantime, the ground is too soft for the gravel truck after all that rain. We have to resort to temporary measures.
First, he set up two more self-watering troughs outside the barn. One of them is for Betty and Ginger (the cows), which have now been locked in the front field so that they don’t keep going in the mucky barn. They have access to shelter, where the turkey coop is located. They just have to put up with a bit of gobbling in stereo when the sun rises in the morning. They just “moo” back at the turkeys, as if they are telling them to shut up.
Last week, we realized it was time to give the sheep their needles again. The lady at Rooney’s said it has been a bad season for parasites, but our sheep haven’t had any, so we are crediting the monthly regime of Ivomec anti-worm medicine for that success.
As the barn is so disgustingly wet and gross, we decided to herd the sheep back into the place of their birth – the lambing pens. The Farmer just opened the door and in they went, followed by a curious Donkey who didn’t want to be left out of anything. He found himself locked in a pen with several ewes while we sorted and needled the rest of the sheep, one group at a time.
Donkey just stood there and sniffed the feeding troughs and the floor and tested the pen gate with his teeth. Pretended he meant to be locked in with the sheep. But after a few minutes, when he realized the sheep were being needled and released one by one to the pasture, he started to worry, I’m sure. He shifted his weight back and forth on his legs, snorted hay dust out of his nose, and cocked his ears several times. While he was doing this, I was manning the gate to his pen. I was using it as a barricade between the freshly stuck lambs that were fussing and loudly complaining about the sting of their injections, and the ewes on the other side. I kept opening and closing his gate to freedom, while he carefully inched closer to me. Finally he was just inside the gate, with his velvet nose on my hand. I took a moment to give him some attention, picking the cobwebs out of his eyelashes. Then the Farmer told me to stand back, and let him out. He did not go quietly out of that lambing pen. He skipped and kicked his feet up, bashing the wall of the pen and the door on his way out. What a fuss. He’s such a Drama King.
All of us on the farm are looking forward to the ground drying up so we can get some hay into the barn before winter.
-30-
Badly Behaved Beasts on the Farm
The girls and I pulled into the yard last week just in time to see Donkey leading several dozen sheep through the open shed door. We had just had a freak storm and the wind had blown the door off its latch, tempting the animals to venture through.
I don’t think the beasts had been in the yard more than a few minutes, however, because although my Brussels sprouts had taken a beating and my spinach was no longer in existence, the rest of the garden was pretty much untouched.
As Paulina, Annie and I scattered and took up posts around the munching herd, Donkey looked up from where he was sniffing a bunch of cosmos. I guess he knew he was in trouble, because he turned and kicked up his heels before leaping over the lawnmower and crashing his way back through the shed to the barnyard.
Polly surprised a bunch of sheep over by the tomatoes, and I blocked them from running down the drive. We opened the barnyard gate and a smart one went through. About a dozen sheep followed him, while the rest tried to go back the way they came, through the shed.
They crashed around in there between the tractor and the workbench for a few seconds, and then they discovered a stack of turkey feed bags. Just a few quick bites with those sharp sheep teeth, and the feed was spilling out on the garage floor. We rushed the sheep, forcing them to the back of the shed and out the door.
One ewe panicked, running back out into the garden.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Paulina cried, skipping over sheep landmines to cut her off on the other side of the swimming pool. She turned the sheep and led her back through the gate to the safety of the barnyard.
“That was exciting,” I smiled at the girls, who have surprisingly good shepherding instincts for city folk. I now have more manure on my lawn than in my garden.
Betty and Ginger, our two cows, must have been thinking the sheep were having all the fun, because the next morning they thought it was their turn.
The phone rang at six a.m. “Good morning, Mrs. Fisher,” my neighbour said. “Your cow is on my lawn. No, she’s fine. She’s just munching away.”
We have very understanding neighbours. Not only do they get unsolicited manure deposits and shrub trimming, but occasionally they get a Donkey peering through their kitchen window while they are trying to enjoy their morning coffee.
The cows have escaped before, when the fresh spring leaves were busting out on the trees just on the other side of the fenced barnyard. The Farmer took a roll of barbed wire and reinforced the fence then, and they have pretty much respected the barrier up until now. But now, apparently, Ginger and Betty are in heat. All’s fair in love and war. All bets are off. These are no longer good cows. They want a man, and they want him now. They’ve tried to tell us with their recent bawling and bellowing, but we haven’t delivered a bull to keep them company. So they have decided to go out and find one themselves.
Betty and the two calves were temporarily distracted by the shrubs on the neighbour’s lawn, but the older and wiser (and obviously more frustrated) Ginger was already across the road (much to a passing motorist’s surprise) and into the next field by the time we arrived in the yard. She was on her way to see the bulls on County Road 20, I think. She was heading in their direction, anyway. How she knows they are there, I have no idea. I suppose they’ve been bellowing messages back and forth.
My husband looked a little worried as he faced off with the cows. Betty and Ginger stared with glassy eyes past him and down the road.
“Come on, Diana, this is your thing,” the Farmer said, handing me a bucket of corn. My thing? I wondered if I could get back to the house before Betty bowled me over for my bucket. I trotted just ahead of the four cows (Ginger had decided to join us) and tried to lure them through the fence into the barnyard.
But just then I was spotted by the sheep. They saw me with corn bucket in hand, and the open gate into the yard. I got swarmed. One lamb put his sharp little hooves on my backside, and another nibbled at my pantleg. I was being mobbed by sheep, and the ones that weren’t attacking me were heading off toward the open gate. The cows looked decided there was too much competition for the corn, and started off toward the garden again. Ginger took a big bite out of my prized hosta.
Finally, I scattered the corn over the ground to distract the sheep and the men (two neighbours had joined my husband) managed to usher the cows through the gate. Safely locked in the barnyard, Ginger and Betty watched as the Farmer reinforced the gate with a bar and a chain. ”Moooooooo!” bellowed Betty, in defiance to her captors. I told her what a bad girl she was, and all four cows turned to look at me.
Then they turned around and walked the worn path along the fence, searching for another opening.
Hoo boy. This is going to be a challenge. And this happens for a couple of days every month? I think we need to dial 1-800-BULL. In a hurry.
-30-
I don’t think the beasts had been in the yard more than a few minutes, however, because although my Brussels sprouts had taken a beating and my spinach was no longer in existence, the rest of the garden was pretty much untouched.
As Paulina, Annie and I scattered and took up posts around the munching herd, Donkey looked up from where he was sniffing a bunch of cosmos. I guess he knew he was in trouble, because he turned and kicked up his heels before leaping over the lawnmower and crashing his way back through the shed to the barnyard.
Polly surprised a bunch of sheep over by the tomatoes, and I blocked them from running down the drive. We opened the barnyard gate and a smart one went through. About a dozen sheep followed him, while the rest tried to go back the way they came, through the shed.
They crashed around in there between the tractor and the workbench for a few seconds, and then they discovered a stack of turkey feed bags. Just a few quick bites with those sharp sheep teeth, and the feed was spilling out on the garage floor. We rushed the sheep, forcing them to the back of the shed and out the door.
One ewe panicked, running back out into the garden.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Paulina cried, skipping over sheep landmines to cut her off on the other side of the swimming pool. She turned the sheep and led her back through the gate to the safety of the barnyard.
“That was exciting,” I smiled at the girls, who have surprisingly good shepherding instincts for city folk. I now have more manure on my lawn than in my garden.
Betty and Ginger, our two cows, must have been thinking the sheep were having all the fun, because the next morning they thought it was their turn.
The phone rang at six a.m. “Good morning, Mrs. Fisher,” my neighbour said. “Your cow is on my lawn. No, she’s fine. She’s just munching away.”
We have very understanding neighbours. Not only do they get unsolicited manure deposits and shrub trimming, but occasionally they get a Donkey peering through their kitchen window while they are trying to enjoy their morning coffee.
The cows have escaped before, when the fresh spring leaves were busting out on the trees just on the other side of the fenced barnyard. The Farmer took a roll of barbed wire and reinforced the fence then, and they have pretty much respected the barrier up until now. But now, apparently, Ginger and Betty are in heat. All’s fair in love and war. All bets are off. These are no longer good cows. They want a man, and they want him now. They’ve tried to tell us with their recent bawling and bellowing, but we haven’t delivered a bull to keep them company. So they have decided to go out and find one themselves.
Betty and the two calves were temporarily distracted by the shrubs on the neighbour’s lawn, but the older and wiser (and obviously more frustrated) Ginger was already across the road (much to a passing motorist’s surprise) and into the next field by the time we arrived in the yard. She was on her way to see the bulls on County Road 20, I think. She was heading in their direction, anyway. How she knows they are there, I have no idea. I suppose they’ve been bellowing messages back and forth.
My husband looked a little worried as he faced off with the cows. Betty and Ginger stared with glassy eyes past him and down the road.
“Come on, Diana, this is your thing,” the Farmer said, handing me a bucket of corn. My thing? I wondered if I could get back to the house before Betty bowled me over for my bucket. I trotted just ahead of the four cows (Ginger had decided to join us) and tried to lure them through the fence into the barnyard.
But just then I was spotted by the sheep. They saw me with corn bucket in hand, and the open gate into the yard. I got swarmed. One lamb put his sharp little hooves on my backside, and another nibbled at my pantleg. I was being mobbed by sheep, and the ones that weren’t attacking me were heading off toward the open gate. The cows looked decided there was too much competition for the corn, and started off toward the garden again. Ginger took a big bite out of my prized hosta.
Finally, I scattered the corn over the ground to distract the sheep and the men (two neighbours had joined my husband) managed to usher the cows through the gate. Safely locked in the barnyard, Ginger and Betty watched as the Farmer reinforced the gate with a bar and a chain. ”Moooooooo!” bellowed Betty, in defiance to her captors. I told her what a bad girl she was, and all four cows turned to look at me.
Then they turned around and walked the worn path along the fence, searching for another opening.
Hoo boy. This is going to be a challenge. And this happens for a couple of days every month? I think we need to dial 1-800-BULL. In a hurry.
-30-
Chelsea, The Crazy-Ass Sheepdog
Chelsea looks a bit like a possum when she smiles, which is often. She rarely stops moving, trotting in a circle at the end of her chain. Eyes on the sheep, ever watchful, she takes her job very seriously. When one of us enters the barnyard, her whole body swings with the wagging of her tail.
The white and brown border collie pup started out in the house, but her high-strung nerves soon made it obvious that she was not to be trusted around small children.
Her domain was established next to the sheep barn, on a very long chain. Her home is a cozy, waterproof barrel lined with hay. In the winter, she often sleeps outside, burrowed in the snow, nose tucked under tail. She seems happy there, high energy and spirited.
The sheep keep Chelsea entertained. She barks a greeting at them when they enter or leave the barn, as if she is counting them. A sharp, warning bark is heard when one of the sheep gets too close to her bowl of food. We push the food bowl deep into her house, because it always takes her hours to eat it.
Donkey bides his time, waiting until the heat of the day has encouraged Chelsea to settle down for a siesta in the cool shrubbery beside her house. Then he sticks his head deep into her barrel and lifts it high, shaking out the food bowl and all of its contents. He manages a few mouthfuls before the dog awakes and rushes at him, teeth bared and barking.
Whenever the Farmer needs to move the herd from one section of the farm to another, he brings Chelsea along on a short leash for assistance. She hunkers down low, like a lion hunting the Serengeti. “Easy, easy…” the Farmer coaches. Chelsea lunges forward suddenly, but softy, just a few inches. Fifty sheep form a wave that drifts in the opposite direction. The Farmer tugs the leash to the left. The collie shuffles sideways, still low on her haunches. The sheep move closer to the barn. They keep one eye on the dog, and mutter to each other. “What to do? What to do?” The light from the barn shines through the open door into the yard, a warm beacon of safety.
The sheep look at each other. The one at the front of the wave peeks into the barn, as a safety test. He looks back at the rest of the herd, weighing options…and takes a step into the barn. Half the herd follows him in.
At the back of the herd, the ram looks at Chelsea. He obstinately lowers his head. Chelsea lunges, nipping a woolly ankle. The ram jumps to the side, breaking away from the herd. Suddenly the herd parts like the red sea, and half of the sheep follow the ram out toward the open pasture.
“Heh – Heh!” the Farmer shouts the call, and Chelsea circles around to cut off the exit. The woolly white wave steers back toward the barn, and through the door. With all one hundred twenty-five sheep souls safe inside the barn, the door is closed and bolted.
“Atta girl, Chels,” the Farmer says, and pats her on the head. In response, she winds her little body around his feet and whimpers for more attention. He gives her a quick rub under the chin and tells her to behave.
The next day, our 16-year-old Annie goes out to feed the dog. Reaching deep into the barrel to pull out the food bowl, she turns to look Chelsea in the eye. The collie must have perceived the high voice and smile as a challenge, because in the next few seconds she covered the distance between herself and Annie without touching the ground.
Annie dropped the bowl and caught the flying dog by the throat in midair, ala one of Charlie’s Angels. Then she quickly stood up and staggered into the house on adrenalin legs, where I met her on the way to the bathroom. Her hair was a cloud of mud, hay and knots, standing about four inches above her head. Her teary eyes were wild and she was shaking.
“I’m NEVER going near that crazy-ass dog again!” She cried.
I gave her a hug and told her that the dog must have thought she was stealing the food. I told her that Chelsea is challenged when you get down low and look her in the eye.
“No, that dog is nuts. And she just hates me. I see the way she looks at me. I’m never going near her again.” And she never has. Annie has no fear of Donkey the bully, but when she enters the barnyard she always gives Chelsea a wide berth.
Chelsea hunkers down and wags her whole body as Grandma Fisher feeds her one homemade jam cookie after another. She keeps her eyes on Annie, and smiles.
The white and brown border collie pup started out in the house, but her high-strung nerves soon made it obvious that she was not to be trusted around small children.
Her domain was established next to the sheep barn, on a very long chain. Her home is a cozy, waterproof barrel lined with hay. In the winter, she often sleeps outside, burrowed in the snow, nose tucked under tail. She seems happy there, high energy and spirited.
The sheep keep Chelsea entertained. She barks a greeting at them when they enter or leave the barn, as if she is counting them. A sharp, warning bark is heard when one of the sheep gets too close to her bowl of food. We push the food bowl deep into her house, because it always takes her hours to eat it.
Donkey bides his time, waiting until the heat of the day has encouraged Chelsea to settle down for a siesta in the cool shrubbery beside her house. Then he sticks his head deep into her barrel and lifts it high, shaking out the food bowl and all of its contents. He manages a few mouthfuls before the dog awakes and rushes at him, teeth bared and barking.
Whenever the Farmer needs to move the herd from one section of the farm to another, he brings Chelsea along on a short leash for assistance. She hunkers down low, like a lion hunting the Serengeti. “Easy, easy…” the Farmer coaches. Chelsea lunges forward suddenly, but softy, just a few inches. Fifty sheep form a wave that drifts in the opposite direction. The Farmer tugs the leash to the left. The collie shuffles sideways, still low on her haunches. The sheep move closer to the barn. They keep one eye on the dog, and mutter to each other. “What to do? What to do?” The light from the barn shines through the open door into the yard, a warm beacon of safety.
The sheep look at each other. The one at the front of the wave peeks into the barn, as a safety test. He looks back at the rest of the herd, weighing options…and takes a step into the barn. Half the herd follows him in.
At the back of the herd, the ram looks at Chelsea. He obstinately lowers his head. Chelsea lunges, nipping a woolly ankle. The ram jumps to the side, breaking away from the herd. Suddenly the herd parts like the red sea, and half of the sheep follow the ram out toward the open pasture.
“Heh – Heh!” the Farmer shouts the call, and Chelsea circles around to cut off the exit. The woolly white wave steers back toward the barn, and through the door. With all one hundred twenty-five sheep souls safe inside the barn, the door is closed and bolted.
“Atta girl, Chels,” the Farmer says, and pats her on the head. In response, she winds her little body around his feet and whimpers for more attention. He gives her a quick rub under the chin and tells her to behave.
The next day, our 16-year-old Annie goes out to feed the dog. Reaching deep into the barrel to pull out the food bowl, she turns to look Chelsea in the eye. The collie must have perceived the high voice and smile as a challenge, because in the next few seconds she covered the distance between herself and Annie without touching the ground.
Annie dropped the bowl and caught the flying dog by the throat in midair, ala one of Charlie’s Angels. Then she quickly stood up and staggered into the house on adrenalin legs, where I met her on the way to the bathroom. Her hair was a cloud of mud, hay and knots, standing about four inches above her head. Her teary eyes were wild and she was shaking.
“I’m NEVER going near that crazy-ass dog again!” She cried.
I gave her a hug and told her that the dog must have thought she was stealing the food. I told her that Chelsea is challenged when you get down low and look her in the eye.
“No, that dog is nuts. And she just hates me. I see the way she looks at me. I’m never going near her again.” And she never has. Annie has no fear of Donkey the bully, but when she enters the barnyard she always gives Chelsea a wide berth.
Chelsea hunkers down and wags her whole body as Grandma Fisher feeds her one homemade jam cookie after another. She keeps her eyes on Annie, and smiles.
Don't be a chicken...
Before bringing our fifty turkeys and fifty chicks home from Rooney’s in May, the Farmer carefully prepared the coop. He swept out the cobwebs, removed any dangerous objects from the floor, and built a little circular enclosure, about the size of a toddler’s swimming pool. He divided this structure in half with a long board, and placed food and water and a heat lamp in each section. Then he hung heavy blankets over the windows, to eliminate drafts. I had never seen him being so careful before. Just how delicate are these creatures, anyway?
When he brought the beasties home, he put the chicks on one side of the divider and the turkeys on the other. They immediately rushed the circle of heat created by the hanging red lamp, piling on top of each other. The birds on the bottom of the heap were smothering. The Farmer frowned. He raised the heat lamp a few inches, to increase the surface area of the heat circle. Suddenly everyone had room. He looked at me.
“We’re going to come in here every morning and every night to check on them, but make sure you don’t let in a draft. If they get chilled, they pile on each other and die.”
He told me we might lose half our chicks. I couldn’t believe how weak and wimpy they were.
This is really my first experience with poultry – unless, of course, you count Taiwan (and I don’t). Walking to the subway in Taipei every morning, I had to pass by a street vendor who took great delight in beheading a chicken just as I was walking past. I looked straight ahead, never gratifying her antics with my attention. I didn’t want to see if the chicken-with-its-head-cut-off stories were true. Those Taiwanese chickens always seemed to be monstrous, huge and fierce, in my memory: nothing like these wimpy chicks on our farm.
I must admit I wasn’t as interested in the baby chicks as I was in the baby lambs that I bottle-fed last February. They just don’t have the same endearing personalities. They’re soft, and fluffy, to be sure. But they are just too tiny and terrified to be cute. For the most part, I have let the Farmer look after the birds.
After a week or two, Farmer Fisher lifted the enclosure and set the chicks free to roam about the coop. Finally, he moved them to a room at the back of the barn that was open to outside for fresh air. They could escape fairly easily if they tried, but only the turkeys have been roosting on the wall and they don’t seem to have the motivation to flee. They are quite content at this resort, where food and water are provided daily.
We only lost four birds in the early coop stages, when they were clustering for warmth.
We lost one more during a group attack (don’t ask – it isn’t pretty).
The one chicken death that I found the most interesting was the one who died of a heart attack. My husband said he just went into the coop area, perhaps a bit too abruptly, and the movement startled the chicken so much that he had a heart attack and died.
This, to me, is ridiculous. But apparently it happens, a lot.
The chickens are nearly ten pounds each, and the time is approaching when they must meet their maker.
We carefully and quietly entered the coop the other night in order to spread fresh hay over the floor. As I hauled myself over the half-wall into the coop, the chickens skittered sideways en masse, muttering to themselves in a high-pitched, gurgling whine the whole time: “ohh….what’s she doing…..she’s coming closer….” And then every once in a while there would be an intermittent squawk from one who just couldn’t hold in the anxiety anymore. But none of them had heart attacks, thankfully. Not even when I accidentally dropped my pitchfork in their midst.
The Farmer has rented cages for transporting the chickens to the processing plant.
I can’t say I will be sad to see them go, but I can at least rest easy that they had a good life while they were on the Fisher Farm Chicken Resort.
When he brought the beasties home, he put the chicks on one side of the divider and the turkeys on the other. They immediately rushed the circle of heat created by the hanging red lamp, piling on top of each other. The birds on the bottom of the heap were smothering. The Farmer frowned. He raised the heat lamp a few inches, to increase the surface area of the heat circle. Suddenly everyone had room. He looked at me.
“We’re going to come in here every morning and every night to check on them, but make sure you don’t let in a draft. If they get chilled, they pile on each other and die.”
He told me we might lose half our chicks. I couldn’t believe how weak and wimpy they were.
This is really my first experience with poultry – unless, of course, you count Taiwan (and I don’t). Walking to the subway in Taipei every morning, I had to pass by a street vendor who took great delight in beheading a chicken just as I was walking past. I looked straight ahead, never gratifying her antics with my attention. I didn’t want to see if the chicken-with-its-head-cut-off stories were true. Those Taiwanese chickens always seemed to be monstrous, huge and fierce, in my memory: nothing like these wimpy chicks on our farm.
I must admit I wasn’t as interested in the baby chicks as I was in the baby lambs that I bottle-fed last February. They just don’t have the same endearing personalities. They’re soft, and fluffy, to be sure. But they are just too tiny and terrified to be cute. For the most part, I have let the Farmer look after the birds.
After a week or two, Farmer Fisher lifted the enclosure and set the chicks free to roam about the coop. Finally, he moved them to a room at the back of the barn that was open to outside for fresh air. They could escape fairly easily if they tried, but only the turkeys have been roosting on the wall and they don’t seem to have the motivation to flee. They are quite content at this resort, where food and water are provided daily.
We only lost four birds in the early coop stages, when they were clustering for warmth.
We lost one more during a group attack (don’t ask – it isn’t pretty).
The one chicken death that I found the most interesting was the one who died of a heart attack. My husband said he just went into the coop area, perhaps a bit too abruptly, and the movement startled the chicken so much that he had a heart attack and died.
This, to me, is ridiculous. But apparently it happens, a lot.
The chickens are nearly ten pounds each, and the time is approaching when they must meet their maker.
We carefully and quietly entered the coop the other night in order to spread fresh hay over the floor. As I hauled myself over the half-wall into the coop, the chickens skittered sideways en masse, muttering to themselves in a high-pitched, gurgling whine the whole time: “ohh….what’s she doing…..she’s coming closer….” And then every once in a while there would be an intermittent squawk from one who just couldn’t hold in the anxiety anymore. But none of them had heart attacks, thankfully. Not even when I accidentally dropped my pitchfork in their midst.
The Farmer has rented cages for transporting the chickens to the processing plant.
I can’t say I will be sad to see them go, but I can at least rest easy that they had a good life while they were on the Fisher Farm Chicken Resort.
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