An interesting dance of sorts has been occurring in pastures and paddocks all over the valley for the past couple of weeks. The steps go like this: the gentleman takes a deep breath, puffs up his chest and struts a few steps. Then he stops and slowly raises his arms up and out. Finally, he turns in a circle so that his dance partner can get the full effect of his burnished, bronze figure. The lady’s role is simple: she is to stand there nonchalantly watching this display, pretending that it has no effect on her whatsoever. Is this the latest performance of Max and Karina on “Dancing with the Stars”? No - it’s the annual spring mating dance of the wild turkey.
Unlike the Arctic penguin, who must display his ability to produce and care for an egg by finding and presenting the perfect egg-shaped rock to his beloved, or the North American loon, who apparently mates for life, the wild turkey of Eastern Ontario is rather shallow and promiscuous. (At least, that’s my take on the situation. My friends at the Ministry of Natural Resources may beg to differ).
The male turkeys, or Toms, gather around the female (I’ll call her Tina) and display their lovely feathers – much like a tanned, muscled male in a too-tight t-shirt at a beachside bar after midnight. They look rather desperate and quite foolish, if truth be told.
Tina chooses the best of the bunch (or perhaps it’s the one who makes her laugh the hardest?) and then goes off to lay an egg. The next day the dance continues, and she selects another male from the group. A second egg is laid in the nest.
This complicated process continues until there are close to a dozen eggs in the nest. Finally, Tina is satisfied that she has achieved the right mix of genetic material in her future brood, and settles down on the eggs. The warmth of her feathery bulk brings all of the patiently waiting eggs out of dormancy, and they begin to develop. They will all hatch at the same time.
In a few weeks, the dance will change. Many of the Toms will disappear in the hunting season that begins at the end of April. Some of them will end up in my freezer and on my dinner plate, after being lovingly prepared by my skilled hunter-gatherer.
The females will not be lonely, however, as they will have several chicks to lead around the fields and meadows that are their dance floor. Many times I have had to stop the car to wait for the congo line to make its way across the road.
The animals on the farm will occasionally engage in their own style of dancing.
Cody, our Gordon Setter, does a mean cha-cha. He paces back and forth (one, two, cha-cha-cha) in front of the patio door, asking to be let into the house.
After spying me crossing the barnyard with a bucket of some unknown substance (it is probably water but they aren’t taking any chances – it might be corn), the sheep rush in front of me and form barriers with their bodies in an attempt to trip me so I will give up the goods. This rather clumsy form of break dancing is very popular after a long winter with nothing to eat but moldy hay.
The barn cats can be found dancing cheek-to-cheek in a slow waltz in the waning sun on the back porch every evening.
Our promenade with Misty and Ashley across the barnyard every morning and evening started out as a bit of a square dance: greet your partner. Turn to the left. Now promenade.
Now that the ‘girls’ have settled in, however, they are taking turns being difficult to test us. Their latest trick is to walk halfway across the yard, then put it in park.
It is very difficult to get a Belgian horse to move when they are unwilling. We have researched on the Internet, consulted local experts, and tried every trick in the book. If the horse halts, I am instructed to glare forcefully at her hip in a predatory manner. Expert thinking is that the horse will sense me staring at her hip, and move the stubborn back legs to divert my gaze. This never works for me. I don’t take myself seriously enough to effectively dance the tango – not even the equine version.
Our most successful move so far has been the turnaround. If the horse won’t go forward, you pull her head back toward her tail until she turns in a circle. Once moving again, it is easier to direct her. And so the dance continues.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Vampire on the Fisher Farm
The farm holds many secrets. For example, who broke the hose from the loft, allowing half a ton of corn to pile up on the floor? Whose newborn lamb is that, sitting comfortably atop the old granny-ewe behind the wagon? And how many of these fat, fluffy yearling lambs are discreetly pregnant?
Most of these questions only remain mysteries for a short time. But occasionally we will encounter a conundrum that eludes us indefinitely. Which brings me to our latest mystery: Who bit my sheep?
Most of the sheep were already out in the barnyard nibbling on hay when I went into the barn last Friday. But as my eyes adjusted to the dim light I saw one lone ewe, standing in the corner. As I approached, she stepped out of the shadows and fixed her gaze on me.
“What? Why are you in here all by yourself? Sore foot? Sore tummy?” The ewe just stood there quietly as I examined her. Then I saw the fresh blood, tricking from two tiny holes on the side of her neck.
“What the?” I called the Farmer over to have a look. “She looks as though she has caught her neck on something…” I muttered uncertainly.
“No, that *bleep* Donkey has probably been biting again,” the Farmer guessed.
I immediately exonerated Donkey, pointing out that he has large Chiclet teeth – not the tiny, sharp incisors that obviously made these bites. Besides – I would like to believe that Donkey has matured and grown beyond his sheep-biting behaviour of the past.
I looked around the barn, under the manure spreader and up toward the loft. Do vampire bats live in Ontario? A skunk had been spreading his scent around the farm the night before. Could he be the culprit? Is there a rabid skunk somewhere in this barn right now, watching me from behind a bale of hay?
Upon closer examination, we noticed that the sheep had matching bites on the other side of her neck, as if someone’s jaw had closed down upon her.
“This was done by a coyote. A young, inexperienced one,” the Farmer deduced.
With sharp puppy teeth, I added.
“It must have happened a few minutes ago, because she has just now started to bleed,” I said.
Did the ewe high-tail it back into the barn after being attacked out in the pasture? Or did the bold young coyote pup venture into the barnyard to attempt a kill?
The episode had obviously given the ewe quite a fright, and she appeared to be in shock. She had escaped with just the bites to the neck, dangerously close to the coyote’s usual target, the jugular vein.
“I want to put her somewhere safe until she feels better,” I announced, herding the sheep through the door to the lambing area with my knees.
Once I had settled the vampire victim in a lambing pen with fresh hay and a dish of corn, I thought to check her ear tag. #338 is one of our senior ewes. She has given birth every lambing season for the past ten years. She has contributed many generations of lambs to our herd. This year she had one lamb but was unable to produce milk for it. She stayed in the pen with her baby (for their mutual comfort) but her pen-mate had to be the wet nurse. #338 is nearing the end of her tenure as a productive ewe. She is old and weak, and was probably dawdling along behind the herd, fairly easy pickings for a coyote.
But it was not her time. She had outsmarted the coyote, and perhaps Donkey had even come to her rescue, startling the wolf and chasing it away.
I put some tetracycline in the water bucket to ward off infection, congratulated the old girl on her great escape, and went back outside.
Ginger and Betty, the cows, were standing just outside the barnyard, staring toward the far corner of the field as if they were watching something. They held their position for quite some time. The Farmer grabbed his gun and went on walkabout. He didn’t find anything.
Donkey was at the other gate, staring at me. I called him and he just stood there, unmoving. He often does this when something dramatic has happened.
I walked up to Donkey, and checked him over. There was no blood on him. I wish he could tell me what had happened.
I gave him a pat on the neck, and turned to walk away. But before I left, I gently curled back his upper lip and checked out his chompers. Like I said: Chiclets.
-30-
Most of these questions only remain mysteries for a short time. But occasionally we will encounter a conundrum that eludes us indefinitely. Which brings me to our latest mystery: Who bit my sheep?
Most of the sheep were already out in the barnyard nibbling on hay when I went into the barn last Friday. But as my eyes adjusted to the dim light I saw one lone ewe, standing in the corner. As I approached, she stepped out of the shadows and fixed her gaze on me.
“What? Why are you in here all by yourself? Sore foot? Sore tummy?” The ewe just stood there quietly as I examined her. Then I saw the fresh blood, tricking from two tiny holes on the side of her neck.
“What the?” I called the Farmer over to have a look. “She looks as though she has caught her neck on something…” I muttered uncertainly.
“No, that *bleep* Donkey has probably been biting again,” the Farmer guessed.
I immediately exonerated Donkey, pointing out that he has large Chiclet teeth – not the tiny, sharp incisors that obviously made these bites. Besides – I would like to believe that Donkey has matured and grown beyond his sheep-biting behaviour of the past.
I looked around the barn, under the manure spreader and up toward the loft. Do vampire bats live in Ontario? A skunk had been spreading his scent around the farm the night before. Could he be the culprit? Is there a rabid skunk somewhere in this barn right now, watching me from behind a bale of hay?
Upon closer examination, we noticed that the sheep had matching bites on the other side of her neck, as if someone’s jaw had closed down upon her.
“This was done by a coyote. A young, inexperienced one,” the Farmer deduced.
With sharp puppy teeth, I added.
“It must have happened a few minutes ago, because she has just now started to bleed,” I said.
Did the ewe high-tail it back into the barn after being attacked out in the pasture? Or did the bold young coyote pup venture into the barnyard to attempt a kill?
The episode had obviously given the ewe quite a fright, and she appeared to be in shock. She had escaped with just the bites to the neck, dangerously close to the coyote’s usual target, the jugular vein.
“I want to put her somewhere safe until she feels better,” I announced, herding the sheep through the door to the lambing area with my knees.
Once I had settled the vampire victim in a lambing pen with fresh hay and a dish of corn, I thought to check her ear tag. #338 is one of our senior ewes. She has given birth every lambing season for the past ten years. She has contributed many generations of lambs to our herd. This year she had one lamb but was unable to produce milk for it. She stayed in the pen with her baby (for their mutual comfort) but her pen-mate had to be the wet nurse. #338 is nearing the end of her tenure as a productive ewe. She is old and weak, and was probably dawdling along behind the herd, fairly easy pickings for a coyote.
But it was not her time. She had outsmarted the coyote, and perhaps Donkey had even come to her rescue, startling the wolf and chasing it away.
I put some tetracycline in the water bucket to ward off infection, congratulated the old girl on her great escape, and went back outside.
Ginger and Betty, the cows, were standing just outside the barnyard, staring toward the far corner of the field as if they were watching something. They held their position for quite some time. The Farmer grabbed his gun and went on walkabout. He didn’t find anything.
Donkey was at the other gate, staring at me. I called him and he just stood there, unmoving. He often does this when something dramatic has happened.
I walked up to Donkey, and checked him over. There was no blood on him. I wish he could tell me what had happened.
I gave him a pat on the neck, and turned to walk away. But before I left, I gently curled back his upper lip and checked out his chompers. Like I said: Chiclets.
-30-
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
A Case of Unrequited Donkey Love
Poor Donkey. He is in love, with the two beautiful blondes from Belgium. He just stands there beside the fence all day long, gazing adoringly at our new horses. He must think they are the most gorgeous Amazon women he has ever seen. He just stands there staring and looking stunned; I almost hit him with the gate when we were leading the horses through the yard. But unfortunately for Donkey, the feeling isn’t mutual.
The first week the horses were at the farm, Donkey kept his distance. I think he was a bit intimidated by the girls’ size (and perhaps their beauty too).
The second week, Donkey was in their stable every chance he could get, sniffing at them through their fencing.
As we near the end of our third week as horse owners, Donkey has taken up the habit of loitering outside the stable doors and following the horses at close range as we lead them across the barnyard in the morning and at night. This can be quite distracting to the horses, as they are trying to pick their way over frozen tractor ruts and rocks while someone jangles his chains behind them.
Occasionally, he will have his equipment on display while he is lurking around near the horses. This does not have the effect that Donkey is hoping for. If he gets too close to Ashley, she will reel around and pretend to bite him. He’s lucky she hasn’t kicked at him yet. I would hate to see one of those dinner-plate hoofs flying in his direction.
Once safely separated by the locked gate, the girls sometimes come up to the fence and sniff Donkey as he watches from the other side. Then they snort at him, turn tail and run, tossing their manes in the air as if they are laughing at him. You can’t help but feel sorry for the guy.
We are still leading Ashley & Misty across the barnyard every morning, and they are getting much better at stopping when we tell them to. I was told that a high-pitched voice (like the one I used with my children when they were small) is not comforting or motivating to a horse. They like a strong, deep voice from their trainer. So I am trying to say “WHOA” in a way that means business.
Terry Olmstead, who owns a set of attractive Canadiens on French Settlement Road, explained that we must try to be calm and confident around the horses. “We are the predators, because our eyes are in the front of our heads,” she explained. “If the predator is nervous, the horses think they should be nervous too.” Makes sense to me.
Lately we have been noticing that the horses are eating a lot more than they did the first week. I guess they were homesick the first few days, as I’m sure they miss their previous owner, Ron. Well, their appetites came back with a vengeance, so we are trying to get them to come into the barn to eat during the day. They have access to the rear hay storage, where we have also filled a tub with fresh water. They will go in there when we lead them, with a little coaxing, but they don’t go in on their own yet. I think the cats in the loft spook them a little.
At the end of the day, the horses are so anxious to get back into their tie stalls (where a pile of fresh hay and a bowl of corn mix is waiting) that they practically drag us on the end of their leads, all the way across the barnyard. In the morning, we have to wait until they are finished their breakfast or they don’t want to leave the stable.
We load the stall feeders up with hay before we go to bed each night, so that the horses are not quite so ravenous in the morning. Unfortunately, Misty likes her salad tossed. Literally. She throws it around so much; most of it ends up on the floor where she can’t reach it. We may have to put up a backstop net or something.
It feels as though spring will arrive on time this weekend. Soon the lambs, who have all but given up their milk bottles, will be out on the front field with the horses. I wonder what Ashley and Misty will think of all those fat, fluffy white things running and jumping around beside them. It should make for a nice photo.
I don’t think they will mind sharing their pasture with the other animals, as long as Donkey stays on his side of the fence.
-30-
The first week the horses were at the farm, Donkey kept his distance. I think he was a bit intimidated by the girls’ size (and perhaps their beauty too).
The second week, Donkey was in their stable every chance he could get, sniffing at them through their fencing.
As we near the end of our third week as horse owners, Donkey has taken up the habit of loitering outside the stable doors and following the horses at close range as we lead them across the barnyard in the morning and at night. This can be quite distracting to the horses, as they are trying to pick their way over frozen tractor ruts and rocks while someone jangles his chains behind them.
Occasionally, he will have his equipment on display while he is lurking around near the horses. This does not have the effect that Donkey is hoping for. If he gets too close to Ashley, she will reel around and pretend to bite him. He’s lucky she hasn’t kicked at him yet. I would hate to see one of those dinner-plate hoofs flying in his direction.
Once safely separated by the locked gate, the girls sometimes come up to the fence and sniff Donkey as he watches from the other side. Then they snort at him, turn tail and run, tossing their manes in the air as if they are laughing at him. You can’t help but feel sorry for the guy.
We are still leading Ashley & Misty across the barnyard every morning, and they are getting much better at stopping when we tell them to. I was told that a high-pitched voice (like the one I used with my children when they were small) is not comforting or motivating to a horse. They like a strong, deep voice from their trainer. So I am trying to say “WHOA” in a way that means business.
Terry Olmstead, who owns a set of attractive Canadiens on French Settlement Road, explained that we must try to be calm and confident around the horses. “We are the predators, because our eyes are in the front of our heads,” she explained. “If the predator is nervous, the horses think they should be nervous too.” Makes sense to me.
Lately we have been noticing that the horses are eating a lot more than they did the first week. I guess they were homesick the first few days, as I’m sure they miss their previous owner, Ron. Well, their appetites came back with a vengeance, so we are trying to get them to come into the barn to eat during the day. They have access to the rear hay storage, where we have also filled a tub with fresh water. They will go in there when we lead them, with a little coaxing, but they don’t go in on their own yet. I think the cats in the loft spook them a little.
At the end of the day, the horses are so anxious to get back into their tie stalls (where a pile of fresh hay and a bowl of corn mix is waiting) that they practically drag us on the end of their leads, all the way across the barnyard. In the morning, we have to wait until they are finished their breakfast or they don’t want to leave the stable.
We load the stall feeders up with hay before we go to bed each night, so that the horses are not quite so ravenous in the morning. Unfortunately, Misty likes her salad tossed. Literally. She throws it around so much; most of it ends up on the floor where she can’t reach it. We may have to put up a backstop net or something.
It feels as though spring will arrive on time this weekend. Soon the lambs, who have all but given up their milk bottles, will be out on the front field with the horses. I wonder what Ashley and Misty will think of all those fat, fluffy white things running and jumping around beside them. It should make for a nice photo.
I don’t think they will mind sharing their pasture with the other animals, as long as Donkey stays on his side of the fence.
-30-
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Ordinary Miracles like Sunday Dinner
The Farmer and I have five teenaged daughters between us. Now, that might sound like a lot. That might even be unfathomable or overwhelming to some. At our farm wedding, friends joked that we should probably just keep the rented porta-pottie, because the Farmer would likely never see the inside of his own bathroom again. But the keyword here is “teenaged”. At this phase of life, the girls don’t spend a whole lot of time hanging around the farm. They have school. And jobs. And oh yes, boys.
Sometimes three or four days will go by before we see our children. It’s a good thing we like spending time together, because it seems as though the nest is already empty, some days. On the miraculous occasion when all five girls are in the house at the same time, I can’t help myself – I run for the camera. It’s the only chance I have to grab a group photo. This phenomenon – like the aligning of the planets, only happens once in a very long while.
In today’s busy lifestyle, it can be quite a challenge to instill traditional family values. You can shout out a “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” (that usually works to at least slow them down) as your kids are running out the door to one social event or another, but it can be difficult to pin them down for quality time at this age.
Occasionally, however, life will throw you a curve that stops you in your tracks. When my father found out that his cancer was terminal on September 11, 2007, we just wanted to freeze the calendar and never turn the page. It was during that time, when we wanted to find a way to celebrate life with Dad, that we drew upon one of the last vestiges of traditional family life: the Sunday dinner.
Mom, Dad, my sister Cathy and her partner Mark, my nephew Riley and as many of our five daughters as we could summon would gather at the farm for a casual-yet-celebratory meal each Sunday. After a few weeks, the Farmer’s wing of the family joined us, making the trip out from Ottawa. Soon we were feeding 15 to 20 people every week.
Some of the guests bring casseroles, salads, or fresh bread. Nearly everyone brings beer or wine, and the Farmer’s mother always brings dessert. This dessert is never store-bought; it is a homemade pie, squares, or cake that she made from scratch earlier that day. Her chocolate cake with cream cheese icing is so good; we had her make three for our wedding day.
I am not a big dessert eater, but I always have a sliver of whatever she brings, out of awe for her talent. I baked a cake once. Once. It was a sour cream chocolate cake with a layer of strawberry jam. My father’s favourite. I made it for my daughter Milena’s sixth birthday. It was so hard, it resembled a brick. Since that failure, I have decided to leave the dessert baking to the experts. And for that, I believe, my guests are truly grateful. I stick to what I’m good at: tossing a salad.
The Farmer, of course, is in charge of the meat. We have some farm-raised chickens and turkeys in the freezer – I am still waiting to see what he plans to do with the beast marked 39.8 lbs. He loves to make dried fruit stuffing for poultry – but he has also stuffed pork. His prime rib is first class, and if he can cook the meat on the bbq, he will. He particularly likes to use his specially adapted rotisserie.
We normally send an email on Thursday, and do follow-up calls on the Saturday if necessary, to determine how many people we will be feeding. We sit by the woodstove in winter, and on the back porch in nearly every other season, nibbling on appetizers, catching up on each other’s lives and waiting to see who else will show up. Occasionally we will be faced with a fishes-and-loaves situation. That’s where you have to streeeeeetch the meat to see how far you can make it go.
This past Sunday, we were expecting eight. Some people are away on vacation and others are sick at home with colds. When the phone rang and it was my longtime friends Janet and Roger Stark asking if they could drop by to meet the new horses, I invited them to stay for dinner and eight became ten. I never know if our college student daughter is going to make it, but she did, with her boyfriend. Then we were twelve. A few minutes later, another one of our other daughters arrived, friend in tow, and twelve became fourteen. I forgot to count my nephew (shame on me!) and our party rounded out at fifteen.
I didn’t think we had enough meat to go around, but I figured we could fill up on vegetables. After a glass of wine or two, good conversation and a few laughs, I figured no one would notice if there were no seconds on the roast beef and ribs.
As it turned out, we even had some left over for Cody the noble guard. And for about ten minutes at the end of the evening, when the last of the daughters came home, we had all five of our girls under one roof. Miracles do happen.
But some of them escaped before I could get my camera.
-30-
Sometimes three or four days will go by before we see our children. It’s a good thing we like spending time together, because it seems as though the nest is already empty, some days. On the miraculous occasion when all five girls are in the house at the same time, I can’t help myself – I run for the camera. It’s the only chance I have to grab a group photo. This phenomenon – like the aligning of the planets, only happens once in a very long while.
In today’s busy lifestyle, it can be quite a challenge to instill traditional family values. You can shout out a “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” (that usually works to at least slow them down) as your kids are running out the door to one social event or another, but it can be difficult to pin them down for quality time at this age.
Occasionally, however, life will throw you a curve that stops you in your tracks. When my father found out that his cancer was terminal on September 11, 2007, we just wanted to freeze the calendar and never turn the page. It was during that time, when we wanted to find a way to celebrate life with Dad, that we drew upon one of the last vestiges of traditional family life: the Sunday dinner.
Mom, Dad, my sister Cathy and her partner Mark, my nephew Riley and as many of our five daughters as we could summon would gather at the farm for a casual-yet-celebratory meal each Sunday. After a few weeks, the Farmer’s wing of the family joined us, making the trip out from Ottawa. Soon we were feeding 15 to 20 people every week.
Some of the guests bring casseroles, salads, or fresh bread. Nearly everyone brings beer or wine, and the Farmer’s mother always brings dessert. This dessert is never store-bought; it is a homemade pie, squares, or cake that she made from scratch earlier that day. Her chocolate cake with cream cheese icing is so good; we had her make three for our wedding day.
I am not a big dessert eater, but I always have a sliver of whatever she brings, out of awe for her talent. I baked a cake once. Once. It was a sour cream chocolate cake with a layer of strawberry jam. My father’s favourite. I made it for my daughter Milena’s sixth birthday. It was so hard, it resembled a brick. Since that failure, I have decided to leave the dessert baking to the experts. And for that, I believe, my guests are truly grateful. I stick to what I’m good at: tossing a salad.
The Farmer, of course, is in charge of the meat. We have some farm-raised chickens and turkeys in the freezer – I am still waiting to see what he plans to do with the beast marked 39.8 lbs. He loves to make dried fruit stuffing for poultry – but he has also stuffed pork. His prime rib is first class, and if he can cook the meat on the bbq, he will. He particularly likes to use his specially adapted rotisserie.
We normally send an email on Thursday, and do follow-up calls on the Saturday if necessary, to determine how many people we will be feeding. We sit by the woodstove in winter, and on the back porch in nearly every other season, nibbling on appetizers, catching up on each other’s lives and waiting to see who else will show up. Occasionally we will be faced with a fishes-and-loaves situation. That’s where you have to streeeeeetch the meat to see how far you can make it go.
This past Sunday, we were expecting eight. Some people are away on vacation and others are sick at home with colds. When the phone rang and it was my longtime friends Janet and Roger Stark asking if they could drop by to meet the new horses, I invited them to stay for dinner and eight became ten. I never know if our college student daughter is going to make it, but she did, with her boyfriend. Then we were twelve. A few minutes later, another one of our other daughters arrived, friend in tow, and twelve became fourteen. I forgot to count my nephew (shame on me!) and our party rounded out at fifteen.
I didn’t think we had enough meat to go around, but I figured we could fill up on vegetables. After a glass of wine or two, good conversation and a few laughs, I figured no one would notice if there were no seconds on the roast beef and ribs.
As it turned out, we even had some left over for Cody the noble guard. And for about ten minutes at the end of the evening, when the last of the daughters came home, we had all five of our girls under one roof. Miracles do happen.
But some of them escaped before I could get my camera.
-30-
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Ashley & Misty's first week on Fisher farm
Oooh, wild horses I wanna be like you
Throwing caution to the wind, I'll run free too
- Natasha Beddingfield
I woke up on the frosty morning of Saturday, February 28, with an unmistakeable feeling of excitement in my chest. After a few foggy seconds, I remembered what I had to be excited about. It was Horse Day.
Deb Williams – the very person who taught me to ride about thirty (cough) years ago – was to meet us at Ron Cooke’s farm at 10 am. She would be trailering our horses for us. The Farmer and I hurried through breakfast and sheep-feeding chores and took one last look at the empty stable before hopping into the truck.
For the past two weeks, since we met and bought the two Belgian mares, we had been reading up on the care and feeding of heavy horses on the Internet and in the handbook that Jack Little, another local Belgian owner, had lent us.
The Farmer read the book, drew diagrams, and spent several evenings fashioning the left side of our smaller barn into a couple of large tie stalls. He covered the gravel floor with sturdy wood, and built each horse a feeding station similar to the ones they had grown up with. We ordered a ton of corn and barley, covered the new wood floor with straw, and sought advice from other heavy horse owners.
As we pulled up to Ron’s place, we noticed that he had company. Ken Acton, another area horseman, was on hand to help with the big move. I had only found out the day before (Ron had no doubt told me earlier but for one reason or another it hadn’t sunk in) that Ashley and Misty had never been trailered before. I was relieved to see that we had plenty of experienced assistants at the ready.
I went into the barn and saw that Ashley and Misty were in their stalls, munching on hay. I spent a few minutes talking to them and feeding them handfuls of sweetfeed. I told them that they would have to say goodbye to their friend and caregiver Ron, but that the Farmer and I were going to do our very best to make them happy. I told them all about the farm, the sheep, the cows, and Donkey. The chewed and stared at me, as if they were listening. I noticed that when one of them stops chewing to listen to something, the other one stops too. When one starts again, the other follows.
As the truck and horse trailer rattled into the driveway, the girls cocked their ears. And turned their heads in the direction of the open door. And began to whinny.
“They know that sound,” Ron explained. “It either means a horse is comin’ or a horse is leavin’.”
Ashley, the older and calmer of the two horses, was the first to be led onto the trailer. She went willingly, but froze in her tracks when her first dinner-plate of a hoof hit the ramp.
“Yes, that makes a noise, doesn’t it?” Debbie worked her magic with the huge horse, leading her up and into the trailer and tying her to the rail.
Misty whinnied and craned her neck to see where her sister was going. Her eyes were a bit wild. She was anxious to get into the trailer too, but once aboard she insisted on being in Ashley’s spot. One week later as I write this, we have come to know that “musical stalls” is one of Misty’s favourite games.
As Ron loaded some hay onto the back of our truck, Ken wandered over to Farmer Fisher. He mentioned that he had driven past the farm recently, and noticed the silage in white wrap on the front field. “You know you can’t feed that to the horses, right?”
Oh my. Come to think of it, I did recall hearing that silage was toxic to horses. But I had since forgotten that important fact. Thank God we had been reminded. I wondered if I was far too ignorant to successfully care for these noble beasts. What other life-threatening things was I unaware of?
We feed the fragrant (smells like a combination of whisky and marijuana), fermented silage to the cows, Donkey and sheep. The animals will practically knock the Farmer off his tractor to get at it when he’s delivering a bale. The feeders are located just south of the new stable doors. So we have to lead the horses across the icy barnyard to the front field each morning and back to the stable every night.
Ashley and Misty are not used to being led either. Especially not by people who are as green as the Farmer and his Farmwife. It was on these initial walks that the true personalities of our new horses emerged.
On the first day, I slid right under Ashley and whacked my knee on the ice. I froze, afraid to turn and see where the big horse’s hooves were.
“Can you get up?” the Farmer queried. “She’s trying not to step on you.”
I shook off the adrenalin and grabbed hold of the lead again. With a horse that big, I have to reach my arm out as far as possible and push her away from me while leading or I end up underneath her.
A few moments later she trod right on my foot. And stopped.
“Ashley.” I pushed my rump into her side. “You’re on my foot.”
She did a little quick-step and I realized she hadn’t put her full weight on me.
These horses seem to know that they need to exercise caution and a little extra patience with their new humans. Once set loose in the field, they canter across the snow, tossing their blonde manes and snorting. I think this means they are happy with their new digs.
Donkey is quite curious, wandering into the stable to sniff at the girls in their stalls and to steal their hay when we leave a door open. He would follow them into their front pasture if we let him. But he has to stay with the sheep and do security. I reminded him the other day of his responsibilities but most nights when I return from work I find him standing at the fence with the calf, nose-to-nose with one of the horses on the other side.
The Farmer seems to be well pleased with our new charges. On the first night, I was returning from town when I heard a strange noise and noticed a light in the stable. I poked my head in to investigate and there was the Farmer, in his pajamas and parka, glass of wine in hand, talking (or was he singing?) to the horses. They seemed to be quite captivated by him.
“Oh. You interrupted me. I was just talking to my girls,” he smiled.
Yes, I think we’re going to get along just fine.
-30-
- Natasha Beddingfield
I woke up on the frosty morning of Saturday, February 28, with an unmistakeable feeling of excitement in my chest. After a few foggy seconds, I remembered what I had to be excited about. It was Horse Day.
Deb Williams – the very person who taught me to ride about thirty (cough) years ago – was to meet us at Ron Cooke’s farm at 10 am. She would be trailering our horses for us. The Farmer and I hurried through breakfast and sheep-feeding chores and took one last look at the empty stable before hopping into the truck.
For the past two weeks, since we met and bought the two Belgian mares, we had been reading up on the care and feeding of heavy horses on the Internet and in the handbook that Jack Little, another local Belgian owner, had lent us.
The Farmer read the book, drew diagrams, and spent several evenings fashioning the left side of our smaller barn into a couple of large tie stalls. He covered the gravel floor with sturdy wood, and built each horse a feeding station similar to the ones they had grown up with. We ordered a ton of corn and barley, covered the new wood floor with straw, and sought advice from other heavy horse owners.
As we pulled up to Ron’s place, we noticed that he had company. Ken Acton, another area horseman, was on hand to help with the big move. I had only found out the day before (Ron had no doubt told me earlier but for one reason or another it hadn’t sunk in) that Ashley and Misty had never been trailered before. I was relieved to see that we had plenty of experienced assistants at the ready.
I went into the barn and saw that Ashley and Misty were in their stalls, munching on hay. I spent a few minutes talking to them and feeding them handfuls of sweetfeed. I told them that they would have to say goodbye to their friend and caregiver Ron, but that the Farmer and I were going to do our very best to make them happy. I told them all about the farm, the sheep, the cows, and Donkey. The chewed and stared at me, as if they were listening. I noticed that when one of them stops chewing to listen to something, the other one stops too. When one starts again, the other follows.
As the truck and horse trailer rattled into the driveway, the girls cocked their ears. And turned their heads in the direction of the open door. And began to whinny.
“They know that sound,” Ron explained. “It either means a horse is comin’ or a horse is leavin’.”
Ashley, the older and calmer of the two horses, was the first to be led onto the trailer. She went willingly, but froze in her tracks when her first dinner-plate of a hoof hit the ramp.
“Yes, that makes a noise, doesn’t it?” Debbie worked her magic with the huge horse, leading her up and into the trailer and tying her to the rail.
Misty whinnied and craned her neck to see where her sister was going. Her eyes were a bit wild. She was anxious to get into the trailer too, but once aboard she insisted on being in Ashley’s spot. One week later as I write this, we have come to know that “musical stalls” is one of Misty’s favourite games.
As Ron loaded some hay onto the back of our truck, Ken wandered over to Farmer Fisher. He mentioned that he had driven past the farm recently, and noticed the silage in white wrap on the front field. “You know you can’t feed that to the horses, right?”
Oh my. Come to think of it, I did recall hearing that silage was toxic to horses. But I had since forgotten that important fact. Thank God we had been reminded. I wondered if I was far too ignorant to successfully care for these noble beasts. What other life-threatening things was I unaware of?
We feed the fragrant (smells like a combination of whisky and marijuana), fermented silage to the cows, Donkey and sheep. The animals will practically knock the Farmer off his tractor to get at it when he’s delivering a bale. The feeders are located just south of the new stable doors. So we have to lead the horses across the icy barnyard to the front field each morning and back to the stable every night.
Ashley and Misty are not used to being led either. Especially not by people who are as green as the Farmer and his Farmwife. It was on these initial walks that the true personalities of our new horses emerged.
On the first day, I slid right under Ashley and whacked my knee on the ice. I froze, afraid to turn and see where the big horse’s hooves were.
“Can you get up?” the Farmer queried. “She’s trying not to step on you.”
I shook off the adrenalin and grabbed hold of the lead again. With a horse that big, I have to reach my arm out as far as possible and push her away from me while leading or I end up underneath her.
A few moments later she trod right on my foot. And stopped.
“Ashley.” I pushed my rump into her side. “You’re on my foot.”
She did a little quick-step and I realized she hadn’t put her full weight on me.
These horses seem to know that they need to exercise caution and a little extra patience with their new humans. Once set loose in the field, they canter across the snow, tossing their blonde manes and snorting. I think this means they are happy with their new digs.
Donkey is quite curious, wandering into the stable to sniff at the girls in their stalls and to steal their hay when we leave a door open. He would follow them into their front pasture if we let him. But he has to stay with the sheep and do security. I reminded him the other day of his responsibilities but most nights when I return from work I find him standing at the fence with the calf, nose-to-nose with one of the horses on the other side.
The Farmer seems to be well pleased with our new charges. On the first night, I was returning from town when I heard a strange noise and noticed a light in the stable. I poked my head in to investigate and there was the Farmer, in his pajamas and parka, glass of wine in hand, talking (or was he singing?) to the horses. They seemed to be quite captivated by him.
“Oh. You interrupted me. I was just talking to my girls,” he smiled.
Yes, I think we’re going to get along just fine.
-30-
Friday, March 6, 2009
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