Pretending to Farm

What You Missed

One thing we learn on a farm, even a small pretend one like ours, is that life can be cruel; and, in the last 17 months, we have definitely had our share of cruelty. Loss occurs without narrative or explanation; it occurs via storms, tumors, and predators; it occurs with little emotion from nature itself. 

Although at times I have perceived nuanced sadness from the farm lot and the in-house domestics, mourning is an individually human adventure and mourning we have done. Hey, you wanna mourn some, too? It’s fun; you get to eat all the Ben and Jerry’s you like straight out of the pint carton and people say nice things to you and make you feel all warm and loved inside. Spoons at the ready? Let’s catch up.

 3. Chickens

   

Some of you might recall the Great Chicken Massacre of Summer 2006. Coyotes had discovered the Rancho Laurena Chicken Shack in our backyard and couldn’t get enough of that free range poultry goodness. This led to the purchase of Spartacus, our most excellent guard llama, and essentially took care of The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Chickens. Well, guess what Nancy Drew? Bobcats ain’t afraid of no llama. And they’re sneaky. And husbands think they’re mountain lions. So the chickens started disappearing, first, the bolder ones who eschewed the comforts of their home for the wilderness of the trees and then the elderly and ailing. We began receiving telephone calls from our area’s mandatory nosey/crotchety neighbor. Poor bitch, she actually had to bend over and pick up a few chicken feathers. Then she had to start hanging feathers with notes attached on our back fence as if we were in danger of impending tribal warfare. 

To give her credit, she was the one who fingered bobcat as the perp though David saw the attack cat early one morning and said it was at least 50 pounds where bobcats who don’t eat fried food top out at 35 so it must be a mountain lion, right? Right? After a particularly bad loss in which all the roosters but one died in defense of their harem, many of which we lost as well, the boys four spent a day in the farmyard battening and boarding and we have lost no chickens since (though we have received a couple more notes from Injun Ginny). 

 2. Ducks

   

It was a dark and stormy night, actually, the stormiest since we moved here. Thunder. Lightning, the way it shook was frightening. You gotta knock, knock, knock on wood. And then awake to a bunch of dead ducks. 

Poor Robert was on a school break and had the misfortune to be saddled with the post-storm farm chores. A scant two minutes after he went out into the farmyard he returned to share this particular non bon mot, “I’m sorry Mom but all the ducks are dead.” Yeeeaaaahhhh, metal poles were maybe not the best materials to use in the construction of the duck pen. With the exception of one horror flick worthy inside out bird, the rest of the birds were without injury and, if not for the fact that they were ducks and could not hold a glass or wear Nikes, one might have thought they committed group hari kari to get on that space ship orbiting for losers. Lightning, shockingly effective killing method. 

Yes, things are no longer ducky here at Rancho Laurena 

 1. Molly

   

Molly deserves the number one spot because, after all, her passing affected us more than any other. She was a crazy old bloodhound but she was our crazy old bloodhound and, for that, we loved her. 

In case you have forgotten/never knew, we adopted Molly from a woman at Camp Pendleton whose husband was injured in Iraq and whose new handicapped housing would not allow pets. Unknown to us, Molly arrived in heat and we awoke the following morning to the raucous sounds of bloodhound sex in our backyard (they howl, you know). Next came puppies and bottlefeeding and wildfires and evacuations, all enough to drive a sane dog a little crazy and this adopted one certifiably batshit. 

Molly was, above all, David’s dog. That dog loved him more than all of Troy loved Helen. Even when old, obese, and very infirm, Molly followed David’s every move, slept beside him, worshipped at his feet. Though perhaps not quite as obsessive, David returned Molly’s feelings and it was a far right nightmare scenario made in heaven (yes, the approval of gay marriage will lead to legal man-dog love). 

In one month’s time, what had been a small fatty tumor on Molly’s torso grew to the size of a large bisected soccer ball which bounced sickeningly at her side. The vet said nothing could be done, that a real danger of bleeding out existed, and that Molly’s rainbow bridge time had come. Sadly, we said au Revoir to our crazy old bloodhound and buried her in that Stephen King novel in our backyard. 

We’re still a little sad but, on the bright side, our food bills are lower. 

So there you have it. I may have missed a few things but I tend to suffer from a combined case of post traumatic farm death disorder and can’t remember shit. Tomorrow, I shall talk about things less rigor mortissy. Until then...

It's Time For...

NAME THAT DUCK!

While I pace the maternity ward halls of my imagination impatiently waiting for the advent of lambs, I thought it would be a good time to clarify whose who in the duck world. During my ducks-are-happy-creatures post of last week, I made the error of non-identification and for that I do apologize. At least, I didn’t get involved in a high-price prostitution ring after pretending I was Elliot Ness all my life. Poor Mrs. Spitzer; I feel for the woman.

Politics and corruption aside, here are all seven ducks (poor Peeps is barely visible in the lower right corner of the photo; it’s hard to see through the camera’s LCD screen when the sun is upon it). Left to right are the following: Buffy, white and tan someduckbreed; Inge, Blue Swedish; Daffy, Cayuga (I would have named him Beetle if I had realized how green his head would be); Magic, Chocolate Runner (or possibly Khaki Campbell, the jury is still out); Peeps, Rouen; Tonks, Cayuga/Blue Swedish mix incubated here along with… Lupin, Cayuga/Rouen mix. Although Tonks was supposed to be a girl and Lupin a boy, it is the other way around. How can you tell? Well, you can’t really in this picture but, as you can see on Magic, the drakes have a curly little feather on their tail. Daffy, Magic, and Tonks are boys and do nothing but have fun while stopping to preen every 4.3 seconds. The girls give us on average three big and rich (not to be confused with a bad country act) eggs a day.

Here you can see Daffy’s green head to better advantage but the photo still does not pick up the brilliance of it in real life. He’s quite stunning. And speaking of stunning, look how tall Mr. Magic is, at least two heads higher than the rest. This, along with his sparkling personality, is why he is King Drake of the place formerly known as the Pen of Misfit Fowl.

Again, see how tall he is? That’s why I think he’s a chocolate runner duck, ready to take off at a moment’s notice if only given the opportunity. Also, look how pretty Peep’s flash of color is. Here it looks blue but, depending on the light, it turns iridescent purple and/or green. Have you noticed how Tonks and Lupin have barely moved this whole time? They’re buds, hatched together, housed together, bound together.

Thus ends today’s lesson in duck identification. I really need to get back to the wash. Things are starting to nest in the laundry cave.

See what I mean?!

Quack!

If Shirley MacLaine is correct about all this reincarnation stuff (the jury is still out for me), I’d like to return as a duck. Of all the critters I have known and loved, I’d be hard pressed to find a happier animal.

The simplest gestures on our part are unfailingly met with boisterous enthusiasm. As part of morning farm chores, each morning we empty, rinse, and refill their plain plastic baby pool for them with fresh water. No big deal, right? Well, not from the viewpoint of a duck. You would think we had filled the pool with liquid gold (not the furniture polish, the mineral, ducks do not do housework which is another big plus for me as far as becoming one). Fresh water is greeted with glee beyond belief. They drink heartily. They dive and dunk and splash to their hearts’ content. Verbose and busy, every day is a party for a duck.

See? Put another chicken scratch in the pro column for duck reincarnation. I love parties. Just yesterday, we went to “The Buffalo Chip Saloon” in Cave Creek for the “Chicks with Picks” concert (enunciate the “P” carefully, otherwise you get weird looks). It was a free (if you don’t factor in the cost of beer) all day event featuring mostly independent female musicians. Julie Sinatra, the previously unknown-to-me spitting image and love child of Frank, performed, as did our neighbor Jessi Colter. It was a fun, early birthday celebration for me. The ducks would have been beside themselves.

The only con I can see in returning to this world as a duck is laying those gianormous eggs. The yolk alone is at least 2” across. And they lay them almost daily. I think that must at the least smart and I’m not good with pain. It makes me cry. Therefore, my one I-want-to-be-a-duck reincarnation request is to switch sexes and be a drake, nicer coloring, curly tail feather, and no egg laying.

Yup, that’s the ticket. Now if I could just figure out whom to give it to.

Extra, Extra, Read All About It!

Dateline Rancho Laurena: Once again, on this pretend farm, a mistake has been made as to the correct sex of one of its animals. Magic the Duck, once a timid house duckling, has adjusted to life in the Pen of Misfit Fowl and let his, yes his, maleness assert itself.

As witnessed by this file photo, Magic has acquired what is known as a drake feather, the curled section just before his tail, and his quack has become low and muffled.

This Barry White quality to his voice has gotten the attention of Tonks, once completely bonded to Lupin, who follows Magic wherever he paddles with a look of longing in her eyes and a quiver to her bill.

Lupin, once a happy go lucky duck, has grown despondent as a result. His depression is quite visible (note the prostrated duck behind the happy couple) and counselors have been called in to help him and any others who feel in need of therapy.

Even Peeps, the Mallard hen who has in the past solely devoted herself to Daffy, seen here in the far background, has been eyeing Magic and wondering if his name has a deeper, more physical meaning. Quoted Peeps, “A duck has needs too, you know.”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, once again an error made by incompetent farmers has led to mass confusion in birddom. Can and will this travesty ever end?

Magically in Love

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, the day young Rebekah and her family brought Magic into our lives was a red letter day. Yes, Magic has moved outside to the Pen of Misfit Fowl along with Tonks and Lupin. She has mostly adjusted, though not as well as her younger former cage mates, and no longer paces the fence line waiting to be rescued. She does, however, keep an eye on the big yard for the presence of her humans. When she sees us coming, she pitter patters to the gate in hopes of an indoor visit. Most of the time, she is not disappointed.

You might think we bring Magic inside at least once a day because, being bleeding heart farmers, we feel sorry for her but the opposite is true. We need her. I need her. Sitting in my room knitting the Tasha dress or, as a quick temporary break in projects, my Wool Festival homework can be a solitary pursuit. After all, I knit at the speed of sludge and those hours of clicking pointy sticks add up. Magic comes inside and, after flapping her wings to disturb all the paperwork in the room and marking her territory a few times on the towel covering the bed, she settles in beside me. She cocks her head to get a good look at my face and at my knitting. I can see her inner duck critic sizing up what I am working on and, after vocally quacking her advice, she adjusts her lovely prehistoric feet under her soft downy belly until she feels relaxed enough to know all is well with the world (or at least the bedroom) and lets her eyes slowly give up their vigilance. I love her.

Oh, and that homework? One of the workshops I am taking is “Steeks,” which involves a Norwegian style of stranded two or more color knitting. Instead of binding off and shaping the armhole stitches as is the norm in most sweater making, one knits a large tube in the round and then, gulp, cuts the knitting where the sleeves will be inserted. I am too huge a coward to try this on my own without seeing it done in person and, since no one knits within 20 miles of me (it is the desert after all; I really should live in Canada or someplace somewhat cold), I thought this was a workshop worth joining.

For my homework, I am to knit a miniature tube, at least five inches in length, in preparation for the ordeal. I haven’t done much Fair Isle knitting, only on Pint’s really big stocking, but I think it’s going okay thus far. The stitch pattern is called “rose and thorn,” beautifully modeled here by my other knitting-time companion, Miss Millie, our little brown pound mutt. I love her, too.

You know, that is one of the best things about our little pretend farm. No matter how challenging life gets or what dastardly things happen, The Love runneths over and it never ever stops. Like Jimmy Stewart said, "It's a wonderful life."

UPDATE:

When Hunky Husband arrived home from this morning's dive clinic, which was a coaching session for his Cactus Shadows Dive Team, not something to cure injured divers, and after he had read today's post, he said, "I have the picture for you!"

So here it is: It seems that when I leave my station, Magic checks over my charts and instructions to make sure I am knitting correctly, the cheeky duck.

Secondly, Papa Ernie the Shearer is set to arrive tomorrow morning to give the lambs, goats, and alpacas a hair cut. Woohooo! I'll try to concentrate enough to remember to take plenty of photos; it gets a bit hectic you understand.

Ode to Joy

I simultaneously mourned and sulked throughout my day yesterday. Severus, our little baby turkey who had given us and a certain chicken hen great pleasure and love has disappeared into thin air and we don’t expect to see her again. We suspect an owl.
As always, I cried and cried, enough to spur David to bring Magic inside for a comforting visit. (Yes, the young ducks have all moved out of doors. Magic is the only one having difficulty with it; she’d much rather be a house duck but I’m sure she’ll adjust in time. Tonks and Lupin have found heaven amongst the muddy water and vegetation and never want to return indoors.)

Losing an animal yet again spurred me into questioning the path we have taken here for the first time. Why did I think I could be a farmer? My heart is too soft and my system too weak. I could no more send a lamb to market than I could slaughter one of my own children. What was I thinking?

Yet, this morning as I did farm chores solo due to David’s business trip, I remembered. The temperature was an amazing 60 degrees; the breeze was light; and the animals beckoning and full of affection. Between health issues and heat intolerance, I have not been as involved as I have been in the past and have lost sight of the joy the whole experience brings to me. I love the farm; I love being a farmer.

Yes, I hate losing animals. A little bit of me dies inside each time we lose one but if that’s the price I have to pay for having what we have, so be it. God willing, I will always be a farmer.

I will close the blog today with a wee bit of knitting progress. The very nice lady whose daughter will be the hopefully lucky recipient of one hand-knit-by-me Halloween and beyond Tasha dress wrote yesterday for a progress report. Here is Tasha’s A-line dress thus far; it’s just under half way completed. The flowers are a combination of intarsia and Fair Isle as I designed the dress (did the math, pulled out my abacus and slide rule, and checked the alignment of Jupiter and Mars) to be knit in the round before I realized it was impossible to knit straight intarsia that way. At this point, there was no way I was going to start from scratch and redesign so I fiddle-faddled with the flowers until I liked the result. What do you think? I’m pleased but it’s hard to be objective after staring at something hours each day.

While we are on the subject of Backyardigans Halloween costumes, here is Cowboy Tyrone’s sweater, in need of blocking, seaming, and finishing the neck. He’ll wear jeans, a bandana, and a black cowboy hat we have left over from a trade show for him to almost complete the ensemble. Do you think it’s a little much to buy a three-year-old cowboy boots?
He is the one and only Pint after all.

Someone Contact the CDC

This past Sunday morning, we attempted to move Magic into the Pen of Misfit Fowl. After all, she had grown to a size reasonably close to the other ducks and we felt she could stand her mud. One small speed bump hindered the journey however; Magic still did not know one important fact about herself. Magic, as hard as it is for her to believe, is a duck.

We put her in the pen as we did morning farm chores. When we entered the pen to hose out and refill the baby pools and fill the birds’ food, she stuck to us like poo. When we left said pen, she frantically slapped her webbed feet and paced up and down the fence-line mournfully peeping, “Did I do something wrong? Why am I a misfit?” Her fears, and our sympathies, were palpable.

Steeling ourselves to enforce our fowl decision, we left her out there, in the pen, surrounded by scary and strange feathered beings alien to her. “Where are my humans?” she thought. “How could they do this to me?” Magic thought they had loved her but now she was wondering if it was all a lie. Surely not, the female human had caressed her, given her kisses, even shared her bed. The male had taken her swimming almost daily. They had played little head down, tail up games together until, both exhausted from the fun, stood relaxed together, the man standing at pool’s bottom with Magic happily balanced on his shoulder. She loved those times; where did they go? Magic’s life had been turned upside down and she didn’t like it one bit.

While Magic was outdoors experiencing a Lauren-rivaling breakdown, I cleaned out Lupin and Tonk’s cage, moved the now-three-week-old babies into bigger digs (previously inhabited by Magic), and obsessively checked on my girl still pacing in the Pen of Misfit Fowl. She was not doing well. She was panting and hanging her head and, when she got a brief burst of energy, searched for a way out of her new Hell. I began to really worry, like cry-me-a-river worry. When the tears started welling up and spilling over for the umpteenth time, I caved. I couldn’t help it; I have Bleeding Heart Farmer Syndrome. It’s a proven condition.

So now Magic is residing back in her old cage, only now with Tonks and Lupin as roommates. I figure playing Three’s Company together might give them all a clue as to their species and, when we once again attempt to move our sensitive fowl outdoors, they will provide each other with a Three Musketeers-like support system. One for all and all for one, you know. I think they'd look really cute in those smocks, too.

Bleeding Heart Farmer Syndrome. Believe me, it’s real.

Hippo Birdy to Ewe

In all the excitement of receiving the quilt most awesome, I selfishly forgot to wish our newest babies a happy one week birthday.

We love our adorable growing ducklings. Throughout the day, they shower us with gentle quacks and enthusiastic kisses and never cease to bring a smile to our faces.

Mirroring our smiles is a certain Pint-Sized Farmer and watching him with them is a welcome and unexpected bonus. Standing below their cage, he points and chants, "baby ducks, baby ducks" again and again until one of us lifts him up to their level. Smushing his face up to the grid of the cage, he puckers up, waits for kisses and then laughs that priceless genuine belly laugh unique to children as their bills tickle his mouth. It's a joy to behold.

If it wasn’t for their “fowl” scent, they'd truly be the perfect pet. I guess we all have our faults to bear but a few less reasons for daily cage cleaning would be welcome nonetheless.

Happy Birthday Tonks and Lupin. Thank you for all the extra love and happiness (but not the poo) you have brought into our lives.

You Didn’t Think We Could…

Run an incubator cycle with just three turkey eggs, now did you? (We really can’t help ourselves; it’s a sickness.)

When Jessica the Turkey was eaten by coyotes (yes I know I have started a post with these exact words before), as you know we salvaged her wee clutch of three eggs and put them in the incubator. Since an incubator, or at least our inexpensive Styrofoam one designed for elementary science class, has to be constantly monitored to insure correct temperature (100 degrees) and humidity (I don’t know; the trays under the mesh need to be full of water), it seemed a lot of effort for just three eggs. Also, as you now know, only one of the three eggs was viable. One never hatched; one died within 24 hours; and only the last, Severus, survived and is now happily bonded with Lynda the Turkey and all is (knock on wood) happy in Gobble Land.

At the same time we were rescuing poor Jessica’s clutch, we, as per our usual farm chore schedule, gathered three ducks eggs from the Pen of Misfit Fowl. Why not throw them in with the others? After all, we have never incubated duck eggs and ducks are some of the most adorable things that patter the Earth. We placed two turquoise eggs, which we assumed belonged to Peeps the Mallard hen, and one beige egg in with the turkey eggs and waited. This past Saturday morning the pecking began but it was mercilessly slow. I suppose since duck bills are considerably blunter than chicken and turkey beaks, breaking out of their shells takes more time.

Sunday morning I was sure we would awaken to baby ducks but no. In fact, only a small hole presented evidence that any birthing was going on. To the internet Batman:

Many people want to help their ducklings hatch. It is best to allow them to do the hatching themselves. The only time you want to help them is when they make a hole and then cannot progress because they are stuck in that spot. If an actual hole is made, and you can see the duckling, but no progress is made for 12 hours, you can gingerly help the duckling. If blood appears where you break pieces off the shell, stop and wait several hours. If the duckling gets stuck after it has started to break a circle around the egg, it can usually be helped without a problem. But if they are progressing on their own, let them be. Well, neither egg was progressing on its own (the third egg, though fertile, did not develop into a duckling). So I helped, a little at first, opening the hole up but then saw blood and did as I was told, a wonder in itself.

After a few hours, I found the duckling exactly as I had left it except for a freed foot which trembled in the air. I helped some more, waited, helped, waited, until we had, cue the fanfare, a very wobbly duckling named Tonks. Tonks is half Cayuga and half blue Swedish (or half Daffy and half Inge) and in the sunlight her bill is blue.

A few hours later, Tonks was joined by Lupin, half Cayuga and half Mallard (Daffy and Peeps).

I could now go into a long story about how I suggested to Hunky Husband that we set up a brooding box outside in the Pen of Misfit Fowl so they would know they were ducks and how instead he came home from Western Ranchman with a new cage for the inside because “they are too cute to put outside.” You people think this house fowl business is all me. It is so not (using my Valley Girl speak there).

Today, our two ducklings are fluffier, stronger, and abler. They can walk around their cage, drink their sugar water, and (sort of) eat their mash.

Next to bloodhound puppies, I don’t think I have ever seen a cuter baby animal and definitely not a better looking baby bird.

Life is interesting (and I am starting to feel better, too!)

Every Little Thing He Does Is Magic

During my ongoing convalescence, I haven’t been lacking for company. Take my towel-covered bed for example, Millie (whose sensitive canine soul always knows when I am sick or down) lies beside me, Magic stares in front of me, Zorro (behaving for once) sleeps across from me, and Marshall supervises from the other end of the room. Last night we actually added up all the living creatures in our home, not counting the ones outside, and came up with a grand total of 22, four dogs, two cats, two hamsters, five fish, one shrimp, one duck, one turkey, and six people. Wow.

This morning, however, I’d like to concentrate on one whose company has been constant and welcome, my friend Magic.

Consider the duck. He or she considers me enough. When not sleeping, he always looks at me, sizing me up, trying to solve the puzzle that is Lauren.

Even when nuzzling his head under his growing wing, he looks at me. I think he loves me but is perplexed by the emotion of it all; the feeling is mutual. He’s become my certified buddy.

I love his feet,

Whether sprawled or standing.

I love his perfectly tucked wings.

I love how he can relax around me,

How he trusts me implicitly and can fall asleep beside me.

Aren’t babies angelic when they sleep?