In the ‘80s, I went to a lot of concerts. My uncle was head of Dustbane Security at the Civic Centre, and he let us in for free. Lansdowne Park was the only venue in town at the time. We saw half a dozen concerts each summer. And we sat in the V.I.P. section. I had no idea how lucky we were.
My tastes were more dance pop than hard rock, however. I didn’t see Judas Priest. Or AC/DC. I never saw KISS in concert... until this year.
Our youngest daughter Paulina is a fledgling rock star. Yes, she’s going to want to kill me when she reads this. She goes to club shows quite often, a true aficionado of live musical talent. I love going to concerts – and I like to give tickets as gifts. I decided to take the girls to KISS at Bluesfest as a summer celebration. Then I gritted my teeth, girded my loins and prepared to not enjoy myself. As it turned out, I haven’t had that much fun in decades. My cheeks hurt as much as they did on my wedding day, from smiling so much.
I didn’t “get” KISS in the ‘80s. I saw concert video clips on TV, and I remember thinking that Gene Simmons’ blood-spitting demon act was really scary, while his cod-piece thrusting dance was just plain gross. After Adam Lambert’s live American Idol performance with KISS, however, I decided it was pretty funny. Those guys don’t take themselves seriously. How could they, dressed the way they are in their garish costumes with the reptilian scales, bat wings, peek-a-boo cut-outs and platform heels?
On July 15 I put the girls in my little non-air conditioned car that squeaks so much you think a squirrel is caught in the engine, and headed to one of the most successful outdoor music festivals in North America. We drove down one street and up the next, searching for a parking space. I was occasionally overwhelmed by merging buses, one-way streets and aggressive drivers, and the girls were getting antsy so I dropped them off at the gate, and went off to find parking on my own. Every time I chose a spot, someone would come out of their house and say, “hey Lady. You park there, they tow you away,” or they would just stand guard at the end of their driveways, shaking their heads at me. Finally I received a text message from my eldest daughter, who was waiting for me at the front gate of the festival grounds. It took me another half an hour to find the parking lot that she directed me to. I walked the few blocks back to the concert area, crossed the green space and the OC Transpo route and booked it down the parkway to the main gate, followed by several slightly familiar looking people that I probably went to high school with. As I walked, I questioned whether I might truly be too old for this sort of event.
Like one of many sheep, I allowed myself to be corralled through the security check. I looked around for my children. Several thousand people were there, but not one face I recognized. And despite my three years in the over populated city of Taipei, I never have become comfortable in crowds. Thank goodness for cell phones and text messaging. They do come in handy at times like these.
The girls texted that they were waiting for me under the big screen, beside the stage. After all that driving around I was thirsty so I decided I had time to line up for a beer. But first I had to line up and show my I.D. I joked that I didn’t have any I.D. on me and asked if wrinkles and stretch marks would suffice. The girl behind the counter just stared at me, deadpan. She must have left her sense of humour in her other purse.
I took a cell phone photo of this 40-year-old guy who was very convincingly dressed as Gene Simmons. He too was playing host to a bunch of teenagers. This is what happens when Guitar Hero and Rock Band use ‘80s music in their programs. The music of our youth gets stolen by our own children. I don’t remember the music of the ‘80s being all that great when I was in it. Funny how it has stood the test of time with such a discriminating audience as today’s youth.
Beer in hand, I made my way through the crowd toward the big screen where my girls were supposed to be standing. Suddenly I got another text message. They were just a few feet from the stage, in the thick crowd that had begun to form. If I could see the guy with the foot-high Mohawk, they said, I could see them. But I couldn’t reach them. The crowd had already woven itself into a tight, impermeable mob. I was resigned to stand at the back, with a bunch of other parents who had been successfully shaken by their teenagers.
Finally, the show started. Fireworks cracked over our heads. Pyrotechnics flamed out from a wall of speakers to tan our faces, and I found myself wondering how flammable those costumes were. Paul Stanley hooked his platform-heeled boot into a hanging ring and swung out over the audience. The two new guys (replacing Ace Frehley and Peter Criss) played even better than the originals (not that I would know). A big screen spanned across the back wall of the stage to show Gene Simmons’ demon act in all its bloody glory.
I thought it was wonderful. It was one of the best shows I have seen in years.
Most recently I have seen Blue Rodeo, Diana Krall, Norah Jones, kd lang, and many other acts that might be deemed more suitable for my age demographic. But you know what? Sometimes it’s good to do something silly. It feels great to be a kid again. Crammed into a crowd so tight you can barely move. Getting rained on because the umbrella you wisely brought would only obstruct the view of the people behind you if you dared to put it up. Choosing for your own safety not to inhale but enjoying the incense mixture of cotton candy, cannabis, Indian food and fresh summer air anyway.
And even though my children stayed just out of my reach, deep in the thick crowd, I felt it was a night to remember, and we shared it together.
-30-
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Julie the 1st
It was Canada Day and the Farmer and I were just getting organized for a trip to the St. Lawrence, where we had been invited to a bbq with friends.
At about 1 pm I headed out to the barn where my husband was topping up the lamb feeders - to see if he was anywhere near ready to go.
It had been a busy day already: Jim Gemmell, a technician from Eastern Breeders, had been around just after breakfast. Our yearling calf Mocha had been doing the mating dance for a day or so, and it was her turn to be bred.
Unfortunately her dance partner was Big Betty – who was supposed to be already pregnant and approaching her due date. The EBI tech confirmed our suspicions – Betty wasn’t pregnant – but she was in season. So we had her bred again too.
Hopefully, it will take this time. Obviously, we are new at this cowboy/cowgirl thing, and we don’t yet know the signs. Betty came to us pregnant and had a nice bull calf last year, so we know she can do it. My girl is no dud.
We might have built our chute just a bit too wide, so once lured with sweet corn into the head gate, the cows had plenty of room to wriggle around in an attempt to escape.
I kept waiting for the tech to get hoofed but it never happened. In fact, he commented on how calm our cows were. I felt like a proud mama. “That’s because this one treats them like pets,” the Farmer gestured toward me.
The two frisky girls taken care of, we turned to look at Ginger, who was standing in the corner of the barnyard, watching the proceedings with a concerned look on her face. She was so swollen with pregnancy she resembled one of those cows you see in Native American paintings: a perfect square block with legs.
The Farmer strolled over to her and wandered around back to have a look. “This cow is going to calf today,” he reported. I hurried around back of the cow to see what was happening. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Of course, I had no idea what I was looking for.
“It could be hours, however,” he added.
A while later I was in the house, packing a bag for the pool party / bbq. I had momentarily forgotten about Ginger’s big day. I do that a lot, I guess. So when I found the Farmer, he took one look at my sundress and asked, “Is that what you’re plannin’ to wear to help deliver this calf? She’s pushing.” I trotted back to the house and changed into a long-sleeved shirt, jeans and my pink rubber boots.
When I made it back to the barn, I found the Farmer standing outside the pen that he had prepared with hay just hours earlier. Ginger was lying at the back against the bales, her face pressed into her yearling calf’s side. Mocha just lay there and chewed her cud as her mother panted, sighed and leaned into her. Betty lay just beyond Ginger’s rear end. I was glad we had closed the door to the little log barn, where the three of them are often found snuggled together, hiding from the flies. Those birthing quarters would have been a bit too close for comfort.
“Here it comes!” we coaxed Ginger as she gave a big push. A huge translucent bag slid out on a wave of water. “Uh...there’s no calf in that,” the Farmer declared. I had a horrible feeling in my stomach that something had gone wrong. Just then, however, two little yellow hooves peeked out. Followed by a black nose. “That’s what we want to see!” It looked awfully uncomfortable – giving birth to a creature that was all knees and elbows and sporting little yellow high heels.
“Does she need help?” I asked, just as the cow gave a big heave and the rest of the little black calf slid out - right into Betty, who up until that wet moment had been totally oblivious. “Move over, Betty,” I scolded. Mocha the calf was intrigued. For the next 45 minutes, while Ginger licked her calf clean and helped nudge it up onto its feet, Mocha kept sniffing and examining her new baby sister. I silently rejoiced that our new babe was a heifer and not a bull. We don’t keep the males and I hate sending my babies away...
Within an hour, we were on the road to our bbq. “What are you going to name your new addition, Mrs. Fisher - Canada?” asked the Farmer. She did share a birthday with the nation. With her shiny black coat, though, the calf reminded me of licorice. “We could call her Candy,” I suggested. The Farmer didn’t like that. “Sounds like a stripper,” he commented.
She was the first of our Black Angus herd, born on July the 1st. And so the dainty little creature, who looked more like a black lab than a calf, was christened Julie, the First.
-30-
At about 1 pm I headed out to the barn where my husband was topping up the lamb feeders - to see if he was anywhere near ready to go.
It had been a busy day already: Jim Gemmell, a technician from Eastern Breeders, had been around just after breakfast. Our yearling calf Mocha had been doing the mating dance for a day or so, and it was her turn to be bred.
Unfortunately her dance partner was Big Betty – who was supposed to be already pregnant and approaching her due date. The EBI tech confirmed our suspicions – Betty wasn’t pregnant – but she was in season. So we had her bred again too.
Hopefully, it will take this time. Obviously, we are new at this cowboy/cowgirl thing, and we don’t yet know the signs. Betty came to us pregnant and had a nice bull calf last year, so we know she can do it. My girl is no dud.
We might have built our chute just a bit too wide, so once lured with sweet corn into the head gate, the cows had plenty of room to wriggle around in an attempt to escape.
I kept waiting for the tech to get hoofed but it never happened. In fact, he commented on how calm our cows were. I felt like a proud mama. “That’s because this one treats them like pets,” the Farmer gestured toward me.
The two frisky girls taken care of, we turned to look at Ginger, who was standing in the corner of the barnyard, watching the proceedings with a concerned look on her face. She was so swollen with pregnancy she resembled one of those cows you see in Native American paintings: a perfect square block with legs.
The Farmer strolled over to her and wandered around back to have a look. “This cow is going to calf today,” he reported. I hurried around back of the cow to see what was happening. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Of course, I had no idea what I was looking for.
“It could be hours, however,” he added.
A while later I was in the house, packing a bag for the pool party / bbq. I had momentarily forgotten about Ginger’s big day. I do that a lot, I guess. So when I found the Farmer, he took one look at my sundress and asked, “Is that what you’re plannin’ to wear to help deliver this calf? She’s pushing.” I trotted back to the house and changed into a long-sleeved shirt, jeans and my pink rubber boots.
When I made it back to the barn, I found the Farmer standing outside the pen that he had prepared with hay just hours earlier. Ginger was lying at the back against the bales, her face pressed into her yearling calf’s side. Mocha just lay there and chewed her cud as her mother panted, sighed and leaned into her. Betty lay just beyond Ginger’s rear end. I was glad we had closed the door to the little log barn, where the three of them are often found snuggled together, hiding from the flies. Those birthing quarters would have been a bit too close for comfort.
“Here it comes!” we coaxed Ginger as she gave a big push. A huge translucent bag slid out on a wave of water. “Uh...there’s no calf in that,” the Farmer declared. I had a horrible feeling in my stomach that something had gone wrong. Just then, however, two little yellow hooves peeked out. Followed by a black nose. “That’s what we want to see!” It looked awfully uncomfortable – giving birth to a creature that was all knees and elbows and sporting little yellow high heels.
“Does she need help?” I asked, just as the cow gave a big heave and the rest of the little black calf slid out - right into Betty, who up until that wet moment had been totally oblivious. “Move over, Betty,” I scolded. Mocha the calf was intrigued. For the next 45 minutes, while Ginger licked her calf clean and helped nudge it up onto its feet, Mocha kept sniffing and examining her new baby sister. I silently rejoiced that our new babe was a heifer and not a bull. We don’t keep the males and I hate sending my babies away...
Within an hour, we were on the road to our bbq. “What are you going to name your new addition, Mrs. Fisher - Canada?” asked the Farmer. She did share a birthday with the nation. With her shiny black coat, though, the calf reminded me of licorice. “We could call her Candy,” I suggested. The Farmer didn’t like that. “Sounds like a stripper,” he commented.
She was the first of our Black Angus herd, born on July the 1st. And so the dainty little creature, who looked more like a black lab than a calf, was christened Julie, the First.
-30-
Monday, July 13, 2009
Bringing in the Sheaves
“Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in….the sheaves!”
-Knowles Shaw hymn, 1874
Well, the sheaves have been brought in, but there wasn’t too much rejoicing. First of all, something happened to a couple of the bales and the twine was loose so the Farmer was lifting round bales up on the end of the tractor fork, only to have them wind open like an unfurling carpet, falling to the ground again. Try to stack thirty of those neatly in the barn. Next, the heavens opened and dumped a bunch of rain on us – not much – just enough to douse the hay we were desperately trying to get into the barn. And finally, there was no help in sight. Not a single one of our five offspring was around to take part in the annual farm tradition of bringing in the next winter’s feed. Which begs the question, where have we gone wrong?
In days gone by, a custom was built around the haying season. Families would travel to each other’s farms in turn, to work together and bring in the hay. This meant a great deal of manual labour, of course, as much of the work was done by hand. The efforts of the help were usually rewarded with a hearty meal, and sometimes at the end of the season, when every farm had been taken care of, a community dance would be held as a celebration. Local farm life writer Mary Cook could tell us a story or two about those days. Haying season was the original social networking opportunity: the chance to meet your neighbours and possibly even find a future mate. It was the original Facebook. It feels as though we are definitely missing out on something today. We could use some of those good old fashioned farm traditions.
With the development of more sophisticated farm machinery, the haying technique was simplified. With the right equipment today, a farmer can cut, rake, bale and collect all of his hay himself. And with the large round bales, you need to use a tractor to lift them onto the hay wagon. So it isn’t more than a one-man job, even if the teenagers did want to help – which they don’t. Of course, most farmers that I know don’t possess their own haying equipment. And it isn’t the sort of thing that you just lend to someone else to use. So, you have to hire someone to do it for you.
The Farmer hires someone to cut and bale the hay. If he is lucky, he finds someone who isn’t too busy to cut the hay during the only four consecutive days without rain that we will have all summer long. Day One, the hay is cut down. Day Two, the hay dries out in the sun. Day Three, the hay is raked and Day four, the hay is baled.
The Farmer chose Day Four to go fishing with his buddy, Ralph. And then he had the nerve to challenge Mama Nature by commenting on the four consecutive days with no rain.
So of course, when he finally had time to move the bales into storage in the barn on Day Five, it rained. And some of the bales fell apart. And the cows got in the way. And Donkey led some of the sheep through the open shed door before the Farmer had a chance to close it.
The process of collecting and stacking the hay bales usually takes a couple of days. I got pretty upset when the Farmer was courting me back in the summer of 2006 and he didn’t call for three days. It turns out he was haying for two and sleeping for one. The other woman turned out to be a 4’x5’ round bale.
We only did half the hay so far. The other half will wait for another elusive set of four sunny days this summer. It sounds like a good idea. The Farmer only has a day of work, and he has time to figure out where he is going to put the other thirty bales.
Ginger the cow is about to give birth. Her due date is Sunday. She will likely try to birth in the hay storage room, where she often shelters from the sun. We will have to wait until she and her calf are out on the pasture before we can move the rest of the hay into that spot.
And so we wait. For Ginger’s new babe, and for another week of sunshine. We have brought in half our hay. But so far it looks good.
I went into the barn and stuck my nose into a sweet, steaming bale. It’s amazing how hot they get, when tightly wrapped and slightly damp. The fermenting process continues, and they can actually become quite flammable so you have to ensure adequate ventilation. That’s all we need: a hay bale blowing up and scaring my lambs to within an inch of their lives.
The lambs will be the ones to benefit from all of this maneuvering, in the long run. If we manage to get a good load of hay in the barn, one that is not moldy and dusty, they will make more milk, birth more lambs and enjoy a more comfortable confinement.
Anything would be better than last year. Last year was enough to make me want to hang up my bag of lamb-feeding bottles for good.
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in….the sheaves!”
-Knowles Shaw hymn, 1874
Well, the sheaves have been brought in, but there wasn’t too much rejoicing. First of all, something happened to a couple of the bales and the twine was loose so the Farmer was lifting round bales up on the end of the tractor fork, only to have them wind open like an unfurling carpet, falling to the ground again. Try to stack thirty of those neatly in the barn. Next, the heavens opened and dumped a bunch of rain on us – not much – just enough to douse the hay we were desperately trying to get into the barn. And finally, there was no help in sight. Not a single one of our five offspring was around to take part in the annual farm tradition of bringing in the next winter’s feed. Which begs the question, where have we gone wrong?
In days gone by, a custom was built around the haying season. Families would travel to each other’s farms in turn, to work together and bring in the hay. This meant a great deal of manual labour, of course, as much of the work was done by hand. The efforts of the help were usually rewarded with a hearty meal, and sometimes at the end of the season, when every farm had been taken care of, a community dance would be held as a celebration. Local farm life writer Mary Cook could tell us a story or two about those days. Haying season was the original social networking opportunity: the chance to meet your neighbours and possibly even find a future mate. It was the original Facebook. It feels as though we are definitely missing out on something today. We could use some of those good old fashioned farm traditions.
With the development of more sophisticated farm machinery, the haying technique was simplified. With the right equipment today, a farmer can cut, rake, bale and collect all of his hay himself. And with the large round bales, you need to use a tractor to lift them onto the hay wagon. So it isn’t more than a one-man job, even if the teenagers did want to help – which they don’t. Of course, most farmers that I know don’t possess their own haying equipment. And it isn’t the sort of thing that you just lend to someone else to use. So, you have to hire someone to do it for you.
The Farmer hires someone to cut and bale the hay. If he is lucky, he finds someone who isn’t too busy to cut the hay during the only four consecutive days without rain that we will have all summer long. Day One, the hay is cut down. Day Two, the hay dries out in the sun. Day Three, the hay is raked and Day four, the hay is baled.
The Farmer chose Day Four to go fishing with his buddy, Ralph. And then he had the nerve to challenge Mama Nature by commenting on the four consecutive days with no rain.
So of course, when he finally had time to move the bales into storage in the barn on Day Five, it rained. And some of the bales fell apart. And the cows got in the way. And Donkey led some of the sheep through the open shed door before the Farmer had a chance to close it.
The process of collecting and stacking the hay bales usually takes a couple of days. I got pretty upset when the Farmer was courting me back in the summer of 2006 and he didn’t call for three days. It turns out he was haying for two and sleeping for one. The other woman turned out to be a 4’x5’ round bale.
We only did half the hay so far. The other half will wait for another elusive set of four sunny days this summer. It sounds like a good idea. The Farmer only has a day of work, and he has time to figure out where he is going to put the other thirty bales.
Ginger the cow is about to give birth. Her due date is Sunday. She will likely try to birth in the hay storage room, where she often shelters from the sun. We will have to wait until she and her calf are out on the pasture before we can move the rest of the hay into that spot.
And so we wait. For Ginger’s new babe, and for another week of sunshine. We have brought in half our hay. But so far it looks good.
I went into the barn and stuck my nose into a sweet, steaming bale. It’s amazing how hot they get, when tightly wrapped and slightly damp. The fermenting process continues, and they can actually become quite flammable so you have to ensure adequate ventilation. That’s all we need: a hay bale blowing up and scaring my lambs to within an inch of their lives.
The lambs will be the ones to benefit from all of this maneuvering, in the long run. If we manage to get a good load of hay in the barn, one that is not moldy and dusty, they will make more milk, birth more lambs and enjoy a more comfortable confinement.
Anything would be better than last year. Last year was enough to make me want to hang up my bag of lamb-feeding bottles for good.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Would Ewe Like a Haircut?
The Farmer had been shearing sheep for a couple of weeks. Every couple of days, he would lure a few more customers into the sheep-salon, where he would pen them in and give them a close-but-not-too-close shave. His record was ten sheep in one day. He was on a roll. But the dumber sheep were quickly being weeded out. Soon only the smart ones were left. These ones kept escaping from the sheep salon. The Farmer needed a new place to secure his customers. So he put them in the aisle of the lambing room, between the pens.
Last summer was the Farmer’s first season shearing his own sheep. Always the practical-minded one (with a healthy dose of Scottish blood helping him to mind his pennies), he decided that rather than pay the usual fee to have a shearer come in, he would learn to do it himself. Those first few shearing sessions were quite comical (for the observer, anyway; maybe not so much for the sheep). The professional sheep shearer made it look so easy. And have you ever seen how they do it in Australia? Flip the sheep, straddle it, shave a few clean strips down, flip ‘er over, repeat, and….release. Sheep gives itself a shake, lets out a baaa, waddles away, twenty pounds lighter, air conditioned and very grateful.
The first few customers of the Farmer put up such a fight – they must have sensed his uncertainty – that they ended up with more than a few nicks around the knickers. After wrestling, tackling and shearing just two or three of the woolly beasties, he was exhausted and called it a day. It took him over a month to shear them all.
This year was different. The Farmer got his shears sharpened. He has a system now. He is in the groove. He may not be up to the two-minute mark yet but he can shear a sheep a lot quicker than he used to.
So back to the sheep in the lambing pen. The Farmer put them in there, because the holding pen outside the shearing room just wasn’t holding anymore. Donkey kept knocking the door down so that he could pick at the sweet hay that is just over the wall in the storage area. And when he barged in, the sheep all ran out.
They couldn’t escape from the lambing room; the door is bolted shut. This seemed like a good idea to my husband at the time, I’m sure.
The next morning, I went out to feed the sheepdog and turn the horses out. As soon as I stepped off the back porch I could hear the lambs in the distance, just bawling away. I put the dog food down and took off at a trot in my pink rubber boots toward the lambing room.
When I opened the door, a little rush of water ran over my boot. Clearly I had been too anxious to get back to the latest episode of “So You Think You Can Dance” the night before, and had inadvertently left the water running all night. I waded into the ankle-deep flood, turned the tap off and discovered a motley crue of soggy sheep in the corner, standing on the only piece of high ground they could find. Suddenly I realized there was sheep poop floating on the flood. Disgusting. I opened the back door of the lambing room and let the water run out over the back ramp. Next, I convinced the sheep to wade through the flood and out the front door into the pasture. When I returned to the lambing room, I discovered Mocha the calf standing in the aisle. She was looking for the sweet feed.
“Hey. You don’t belong in here!” I had just uttered these words when Mocha suddenly turned and emptied her bowels into the flood. Oh. What fresh HELL is this? I groaned.
I grabbed the shepherd’s crook and poked her in the flank until she reluctantly trudged out the door. The din of the lambs bawling (I don’t know what they were so upset about; the flood couldn’t reach them on their elevated plateaus of hay and manure) was deafening. I ran back out to the shed, returned with a wide snow shovel, and proceeded to plough the flood of water and poop out the back door of the lambing pen. When the mess was gone, I flooded fresh water over the floor. Finally, I refilled the lamb feeders with hay, sweet feed and water. Suddenly the bawling stopped. All I could hear was grunting, snuffling and snorting. Occasionally a lamb would let out a strange garbled “baa”, almost in appreciation. They sound so strange, I half expect Jim Carrey to stand up in the middle of the crowd sometimes.
Within an hour I had the mess cleaned, the feeding done, the lambs settled.
When I returned to the house, I brought the Farmer a coffee and told him the story of my hellish feeding session. This was his reply:
“You mean you let my sheep go?”
Last summer was the Farmer’s first season shearing his own sheep. Always the practical-minded one (with a healthy dose of Scottish blood helping him to mind his pennies), he decided that rather than pay the usual fee to have a shearer come in, he would learn to do it himself. Those first few shearing sessions were quite comical (for the observer, anyway; maybe not so much for the sheep). The professional sheep shearer made it look so easy. And have you ever seen how they do it in Australia? Flip the sheep, straddle it, shave a few clean strips down, flip ‘er over, repeat, and….release. Sheep gives itself a shake, lets out a baaa, waddles away, twenty pounds lighter, air conditioned and very grateful.
The first few customers of the Farmer put up such a fight – they must have sensed his uncertainty – that they ended up with more than a few nicks around the knickers. After wrestling, tackling and shearing just two or three of the woolly beasties, he was exhausted and called it a day. It took him over a month to shear them all.
This year was different. The Farmer got his shears sharpened. He has a system now. He is in the groove. He may not be up to the two-minute mark yet but he can shear a sheep a lot quicker than he used to.
So back to the sheep in the lambing pen. The Farmer put them in there, because the holding pen outside the shearing room just wasn’t holding anymore. Donkey kept knocking the door down so that he could pick at the sweet hay that is just over the wall in the storage area. And when he barged in, the sheep all ran out.
They couldn’t escape from the lambing room; the door is bolted shut. This seemed like a good idea to my husband at the time, I’m sure.
The next morning, I went out to feed the sheepdog and turn the horses out. As soon as I stepped off the back porch I could hear the lambs in the distance, just bawling away. I put the dog food down and took off at a trot in my pink rubber boots toward the lambing room.
When I opened the door, a little rush of water ran over my boot. Clearly I had been too anxious to get back to the latest episode of “So You Think You Can Dance” the night before, and had inadvertently left the water running all night. I waded into the ankle-deep flood, turned the tap off and discovered a motley crue of soggy sheep in the corner, standing on the only piece of high ground they could find. Suddenly I realized there was sheep poop floating on the flood. Disgusting. I opened the back door of the lambing room and let the water run out over the back ramp. Next, I convinced the sheep to wade through the flood and out the front door into the pasture. When I returned to the lambing room, I discovered Mocha the calf standing in the aisle. She was looking for the sweet feed.
“Hey. You don’t belong in here!” I had just uttered these words when Mocha suddenly turned and emptied her bowels into the flood. Oh. What fresh HELL is this? I groaned.
I grabbed the shepherd’s crook and poked her in the flank until she reluctantly trudged out the door. The din of the lambs bawling (I don’t know what they were so upset about; the flood couldn’t reach them on their elevated plateaus of hay and manure) was deafening. I ran back out to the shed, returned with a wide snow shovel, and proceeded to plough the flood of water and poop out the back door of the lambing pen. When the mess was gone, I flooded fresh water over the floor. Finally, I refilled the lamb feeders with hay, sweet feed and water. Suddenly the bawling stopped. All I could hear was grunting, snuffling and snorting. Occasionally a lamb would let out a strange garbled “baa”, almost in appreciation. They sound so strange, I half expect Jim Carrey to stand up in the middle of the crowd sometimes.
Within an hour I had the mess cleaned, the feeding done, the lambs settled.
When I returned to the house, I brought the Farmer a coffee and told him the story of my hellish feeding session. This was his reply:
“You mean you let my sheep go?”
Friday, June 19, 2009
To fix or not to fix: that is the question
I had been mulling over what I would write about this week. The horseflies are bothering the horses. I have moved the cat food from the back porch to the horse stable, to reduce the fly count around the pool. The potato bugs have proven themselves to be non-discriminating, as they devour my tomato plants. As you can see, not much has happened around here lately.
And then I read the letter to the editor, regarding my barn cats. This is not the first time I have heard from this concerned citizen regarding that particular group of residents of the Fisher Farm. Once again, she is upset to read my stories about my multitude of barn cats, because she believes that all feral cats should be spayed or neutered. She is not alone in her opinion.
The thought is that we should “fix” all stray cats so that they are less likely to spread diseases like feline leukemia.
Quite honestly, I don’t think the life span of a barn cat is long enough to spread feline leukemia. Call me ignorant, because I very well may be, but I don’t think our cats live longer than one or two years. They resist all of our attempts to tame them, they want to live outside, and so their lives are short.
That being said, I have never seen a “sick” cat on our farm. I’ve seen one kitten with an eye infection. I caught it, gave it antibiotic eye drops, and the infection went away. Kitty Mama had an open sore on her neck. I caught her, treated her with antibiotic ointment, the wound healed. When the cats are gathered around the food bowls, I sprinkle flea powder over them. Other than that, they need very little care. They are healthy. Their coats are shiny and their eyes are clear.
But the cats serve a purpose on the farm. We have six tons of grain stored in bins in the loft for the sheep. The cats keep the rodents to a minimum. In my nearly two years of climbing over hay bales and lowering myself down into the corn bin, I have never seen a rodent – not counting the half dozen moles that have been placed in my shoes on the back porch as gentle offerings from the cats that I feed every day.
I love these cats. I talk to them and they talk back. Some of them allow me to pet them. Most of them climb to an unattainable spot where they can safely watch me when I approach. But when their kittens are weaning, they bring them too to the back porch to be fed. I feed the inferior male on the front porch because the alpha male beats him up. There is only room for one male cat on the farm. The symbiotic relationship between the various species is a delicate one.
We don’t spay and neuter our barn cats because a fixed cat is a lazy cat, in my experience. I can just imagine, half a dozen cats lazing about recovering post-op, and later growing so fat that they cannot muster the energy to chase their favourite prey. When a mouse runs up and sniffs the cat’s food bowl, the cat snarls in Garfield fashion and says, “move along. That’s my dinner. The corn bin is over that-a-way.”
I’m not saying my way is right. I’m pretty sure there are members of my own family who would side with the letter writer and suggest that I have all the barn cats spayed and neutered. But would it prolong their lives?
The farming life is a practical one. You don’t spend more than you have to, and you try not to fight nature. That doesn’t mean we don’t scoop up abandoned newborn kittens and try to feed them. That doesn’t mean I don’t get up every four hours throughout the night to bottle feed orphaned lambs. We medicate the animals with viruses and we perform first aid on the injured. We do what we can.
And we are open to suggestion. When I first read the opinion that I should spay and neuter my barn cats, I gave it serious thought, I have to be honest. But it just doesn’t make sense to me. I’m not stubborn – I just see it a different way. She has a valid point, and I understand exactly where she is coming from. With love for the animals that share our lives. But I won’t be trapping and fixing my barn cats this year.
Thank you for reading, and I welcome your comments.
You can reach The Accidental Farmwife at dianafisher1@gmail.com
And then I read the letter to the editor, regarding my barn cats. This is not the first time I have heard from this concerned citizen regarding that particular group of residents of the Fisher Farm. Once again, she is upset to read my stories about my multitude of barn cats, because she believes that all feral cats should be spayed or neutered. She is not alone in her opinion.
The thought is that we should “fix” all stray cats so that they are less likely to spread diseases like feline leukemia.
Quite honestly, I don’t think the life span of a barn cat is long enough to spread feline leukemia. Call me ignorant, because I very well may be, but I don’t think our cats live longer than one or two years. They resist all of our attempts to tame them, they want to live outside, and so their lives are short.
That being said, I have never seen a “sick” cat on our farm. I’ve seen one kitten with an eye infection. I caught it, gave it antibiotic eye drops, and the infection went away. Kitty Mama had an open sore on her neck. I caught her, treated her with antibiotic ointment, the wound healed. When the cats are gathered around the food bowls, I sprinkle flea powder over them. Other than that, they need very little care. They are healthy. Their coats are shiny and their eyes are clear.
But the cats serve a purpose on the farm. We have six tons of grain stored in bins in the loft for the sheep. The cats keep the rodents to a minimum. In my nearly two years of climbing over hay bales and lowering myself down into the corn bin, I have never seen a rodent – not counting the half dozen moles that have been placed in my shoes on the back porch as gentle offerings from the cats that I feed every day.
I love these cats. I talk to them and they talk back. Some of them allow me to pet them. Most of them climb to an unattainable spot where they can safely watch me when I approach. But when their kittens are weaning, they bring them too to the back porch to be fed. I feed the inferior male on the front porch because the alpha male beats him up. There is only room for one male cat on the farm. The symbiotic relationship between the various species is a delicate one.
We don’t spay and neuter our barn cats because a fixed cat is a lazy cat, in my experience. I can just imagine, half a dozen cats lazing about recovering post-op, and later growing so fat that they cannot muster the energy to chase their favourite prey. When a mouse runs up and sniffs the cat’s food bowl, the cat snarls in Garfield fashion and says, “move along. That’s my dinner. The corn bin is over that-a-way.”
I’m not saying my way is right. I’m pretty sure there are members of my own family who would side with the letter writer and suggest that I have all the barn cats spayed and neutered. But would it prolong their lives?
The farming life is a practical one. You don’t spend more than you have to, and you try not to fight nature. That doesn’t mean we don’t scoop up abandoned newborn kittens and try to feed them. That doesn’t mean I don’t get up every four hours throughout the night to bottle feed orphaned lambs. We medicate the animals with viruses and we perform first aid on the injured. We do what we can.
And we are open to suggestion. When I first read the opinion that I should spay and neuter my barn cats, I gave it serious thought, I have to be honest. But it just doesn’t make sense to me. I’m not stubborn – I just see it a different way. She has a valid point, and I understand exactly where she is coming from. With love for the animals that share our lives. But I won’t be trapping and fixing my barn cats this year.
Thank you for reading, and I welcome your comments.
You can reach The Accidental Farmwife at dianafisher1@gmail.com
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