Pretending to Farm

Vilkommen to Zee Asylum

Maybe it’s just the time of year, but I’m beginning to wonder if somehow a little some-something has found its way into the ruminant feed, that or if they've all gone a little nutso (wouldn't be the first ones around here). They’re all acting a little wacky tobbacky.

Bill Withers (oh did you forget we had goats as well?) keeps strolling over and resting his head against my hip. If I don’t pet him, he puts on a little pressure until I do. When I step back, he looks like this, all ready for his first Grateful Dead concert, twenty-odd years too late. If you listen closely, you can hear him singing CSN’s “Almost Cut My Hair.” Bill definitely lets his freak flag fly.

Then there’s Daisy. Anthony’s mom came over yesterday to drop him off and see the lambs and when she saw her said, “Daisy’s still alive?” Yup, but she’s one weird Boer Goat. She keeps to herself, hanging with the chickens (who admittedly are wonderful conversationalists), soaking up some rays, man, and happily displaying her buzz to the world. She’s also very proud that she still has all her teeth.

Charlotte here keeps trying to make us play made-ya-blink with her. She wins every time. I think it has something to do with the scar tissue on her nose. That must have been some blow (to the head, I mean; I do not endorse the use of any illegal substances on my blog!)

Don’t even ask; I just backed away slowly.

Even the little ones are acting queer, Finnegan in particular. Those sugar lips better be from the roots, bad boy.

I mean look at him! I can’t decide whether he is conversing with the plywood or is trying to get rich quick by finding a vision of the Virgin Mary in the grain and selling it on Ebay so that casino can buy it. Hey, wood’s better than toast, by gosh and golly.

On top of that, Seamus, no longer the object of my anxiety, thinks he’s a dog. Look at that stack! Westminster, here we come. Introducing Shetland Sheep #66, Rancho Laurena’s Seamus Dillon.

This is him doing his impression of Zuul from Ghostbusters (yes, I was having a little too much fun with Photoshop). I’m watching the skies for the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

I could go on and on. For now, however, I’ll end with Big-Faced Sean here. Interpret him as you will.

Tomorrow, the removal of das boot!

Keep Manhattan; Just Give Me That Countryside

Yesterday, we had one of those days that brings us down a peg or ten and reminds us that, yes, we are amateurs and indeed pretend farmers. One could even go so far as to say we, in the great overused term of the past few decades, suck.

It was time to worm the ruminants, actually past time. According to my handy-dandy farming-for-incompetents calendar, worming is to be done three weeks after shearing to allow for a little hair growth for proper adhesion of the pour-on Ivermectin. It had now been five.

The Ivermectin, primarily intended for cattle but advertised for use on sheep and goats, comes in a heavy gallon container. We transfer a portion of this to a smaller vessel with a side squeezy thing (that’s the technical term for it) that measures milliliters. Unfortunately, it measures them by tens and worming requires one milliliter per 22 pounds of body weight.

Now I suppose if we were genuine professional farmer/ranchers, we would have some sort of chute system with a stand-on weighing apparatus (otherwise known as a scale) which would both restrain the animal and give us a clue as to the proper dosage for each animal. We do not, however, have either of these things. Therefore, we planned on eyeballing both their weight and the dosage amount and restraining them to the best of our ability by keeping them penned until they were all treated. Everything would go smoothly. Yup, that’s what would happen, and the world would be at peace and all disease would be eradicated and we’d spend our days dancing in fields of clover with Vivaldi serenading us in the background.

Armed with optimism and de-wormer, David, Robert, AJ (Robert’s friend who had spent the previous night), and I headed to the ruminant pen. On the way there, I casually dosed Daisy the Boer Goat who is surprisingly still hanging in there. No problem. Then our little farm universe went topsy-turvy and something resembling more-than-chaos ensued.

You see, AJ’s not a farmer at all, not even a pretend one but he is a nice boy who loves our animals and really wanted to “help.” He first helped by not properly closing the gate to the ruminant pen. Alert to the fact that something other than breakfast was being served, the already skittish sheep, goats, and alpacas began running hither and thither, trying desperately to avoid being marked by a small line of blue liquid. Resourceful little fur-balls, they quickly discovered that the gate wasn’t latched right and into the big yard they ran. We caught a few but for the most part, it was “Ruminants Gone Wild.”

Because Leroy and Darby are in solitary confinement right now as punishment for incestual desires and while they await their upcoming de-balling, I thought they would be easy to dose. That was before I got rammed in the stomach by a hundred plus pound ram. Stars are so pretty in the light of day, don’t you think? I did finish the task though, but not before reminding myself that flip flops and pajama pants don’t always work as the best farm attire. I really need some sharp-hoof-protection footwear.

In an attempt to catch and dose the rest of the fast running and high jumping animals, AJ and Robert assumed what they thought was a good capture posture, arms and legs spread wide, and began charging toward the animals in Frankenstein-like steps. This caused the already freaked-out sheep and goats to go insane asylum inmate all the more. Our cries to stop what they were doing went unheeded and the omnipresent mayhem descended to the next level of Hell. Finally, weary of the fight, I decided to open the feed shed doors and both their hunger and their fascination with the feed shed and its contents took precedence over their fear of blue liquid. They ventured my way and I was finally able to finish worming them all.

Next time, I think I’m going to buck directions and worm them when Papa Ernie the Shearer comes for his twice-yearly visits. Somebody needs to have some skills around here (and it’s obviously not going to be us).

Rome Has Come to Us

I’m still sitting here in hormone/arthritis hell, hoping for the veil to lift and trying not to cry when #1, someone in my Angora goat email group sends a message that her doeling died, #2, Pakistan imposes emergency rule (I knew that bastard Musharraf would do that right before the Supreme Court was set to debate the constitutionality of his “re-election;” oh Ms. Bhutto, I feel your pain, or #3, I realize our electorate won’t take Ron Paul seriously as a candidate and we’ll end up with another insincere talking head, no matter the party, running our country (into the ground). Yes, I realize these are things I have absolutely no control over. And your point is? Sometimes it is easier to think about the outside unmanageable events than those closer to home.

Perhaps it would help to focus on the farm? I love the farm. Spartacus, after a few initial days of trepidation, has come into his own and realized that he is the big dog, so to speak, of Rancho Laurena. After all, we took him from the only home he had ever known, away from his mother and all the Daisies, Nubians, and Nigerian Dwarves he lived amongst and drove him 2 ½ hours to be surrounded by a bunch of wooly and hairy beasts. Tumalo, jerk that he is, immediately started picking on him, folding back his ears and raising his head in preparation for a generous bile-filled spit attack. And poor Spartacus took it. Thankfully, Lucky was eager to make friends and the two of them bonded as one against the evil but lovely-in-a-fibrous-way Tumalo. Also thankfully, Spartacus realized a couple days ago that he is much larger than the bad alpaca and threw his arse to the ground, pronouncing his superiority over lesser camelids everywhere quoting, "And maybe there's no peace in this world, for us or for anyone else, I don't know. But I do know that, as long as we live, we must remain true to ourselves." The boy has become a man.

Well, guess what else bad-host Tumalo? Dr. Samuelson is coming next week to chop off your balls (and all the nunus that hang from all the non-human males on our little pretend farm). There will be no more procreation around these parts; we cannot afford to feed anymore creatures and I don’t have the time or energy to process all the fiber they produce as much as I would like to do so. After all, we did initially want only a small spinner’s flock but the lust for lambs was strong and now, because we put off building ram pens for too long, we’re set to have crop #2 come spring. Oh, my. I hope someone will buy them because I cannot take Papa Ernie the Shearer’s advice and put them in the freezer. The wimp is strong in this one.

By the way, a spark of optimism is glowing somewhere deep inside me and I sense better things to come on the horizon. The Furnace Wars are over; Toronto has turned on the heat.

Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Mojo Gone?

I have to apologize in advance for a short post lacking in photos and humor. Appointments, commissions, and chores have clogged my day and stolen my writing mojo. Hopefully, tomorrow it will return; I’d hate to have to go on an Austin Powers-esque quest to get my mojo back.

I awoke to a grand 58 degrees this morning, divine proof that fall is beckoning and my mental health is improving! Although I am sure a spell or ten of high heat will visit before autumn has definitely arrived, I am thrilled that summer’s end is nigh.

The ruminants are thrilled as well, their sighs of relief palpable. Even more relief will come next weekend as Papa Ernie the Shearer is visiting Sunday to take a few bags of yarn-to-be off the three Angora goats, this year’s lambs, and, if Son Ernie can come along, the alpacas as well.

Daisy, being a meat goat, does not need shearing. Our predictions of her impending demise were overly hasty, thankfully. She eats and drinks like a healthy goat should but is still scarily thin and depressed if a ruminant can be. Maybe she misses the family who raised her during her first year of life. I don’t know but she keeps to herself, socializing very little with the other animals, and responds only to a few of the family. It’s sad.

On a lighter note, Tumalo the Dark (alpaca) and Leroy the Grey (ram) are celebrating the fall air by sparring, pressing their foreheads together and rounding about one another. Why Lucky is not involved, I know not; maybe he’s the brainier of the boys and actually realizes he cannot mate with a sheep or goat.

Work beckons, gentle readers. I must be going now. If you see my mojo, tell it in no uncertain terms to high tail it back this way. Thank you very much.

Oh, and by the way, for those of you who wanted to know why my mother’s portrait hangs in Epcot, it is because the photographer who took it entered it into a national contest and won. It is a beautifully done photograph, but the subject matter didn’t hurt either.

Something in the Air Today, Hold On

The weather is teasing me as of late. On one hand, it has been another record-breaking summer full of broiling heat and very little rain. As of September 1, we had had 31 days over 110 degrees and the highest low in history, 91 wake-up-sunshine degrees. Yet, on the other hand, the morning temperatures are beginning to decline and I can sense just the slightest suggestion that autumn is trying to fight its way through. This morning it was a frigid 77 when I drove the boys to the bus stop. Be still my beating heart!

With the promise of fall comes an awakening of my soul and excitement for the months to come. Soon I will be able to receive as much ruminant therapy as my little heart desires, no matter the time of day. I will be able to give Charlotte her favorite treat of green grapes and gift the goats with a turning apple or ten. I will be able to knit wool items larger than socks or child-sized sweaters without my lap catching on fire. Once again, I will be able to dye roving, and God willing, spin that wool into one-of-a-kind yarn, full of the promise of what it will become. I am getting just a wee bit excited.

Speaking of knitting projects, I have my very first knitting commission, a Tasha Halloween costume! Apparently, we are not the only Backyardigans fans around. I designed the dress myself (after Tasha’s of course), a sleeveless deep orange a-line jumper decorated with pale orange slightly-variegated intarsia flowers. I checked and triple checked my math and agonized over colors, gauge, and needle size until I was as confident as someone of my ilk can be that the dress will not only fit and make a wonderful Halloween costume but also be a garment wearable throughout the fall and winter with the addition of a shirt underneath. As Pint’s Cowboy Tyrone sweater is complete other than a half a sleeve and the normal blocking, seaming, and neckline, I am just about ready to begin. Today will be the day.

Very few things nourish the soul like a sense of accomplishment and today I’ve reached my RDA. It’s a good thing, Martha.

Yarn on Hooves

The first thunderstorms of the monsoon season rolled through in the night, providing much needed water for the desert plants’ and animals’ survival as well as lightening my mood with the promise of rain-cooled air. Morning’s overcast skies chained me to bed until six instead of the intended 4:30 or 5:00, so timed for snapping photographs while the temperature was still tolerable. I persevered, however, hoping for picture taking in a temporarily cooler atmosphere but instead found East Coast-like humidity. Within moments, I was downright dewy. An overly wimpy heat-sensitive pretend shepherdess can’t win for losing.

I did find out something about myself. Part of my recent melancholy has to do with farm animal separation. While taking photos this morning, I felt like it had been forever since I had visited with my fleecy friends up close. I have to force myself to “suck it up,” Hunky Husband’s favorite mantra, and be out there if only for a little while each day. I have lost touch with the farm and have only a spoiled rotten baby turkey (seen here doing his best rubber chicken impersonation) as close physical evidence of what we have built here. If I have to go as far as wetting towels and putting them in the freezer the night before for application around my neck in order to be out there with the farmy bunch, that is what I have to do. Reconnecting with what I love about this place is the key. I know this now. Don’t think I’ve changed my mind about going to San Diego though. I’m being honest with myself, not masochistic.

Philosophical musings ended; let’s take a peak at the yarn on hooves.

Behold Madeline, still looking the baby bison, just a much larger baby bison. She is almost as big as her mother who, by the way, weaned Maddy just fine without any help from us. After hearing many differing viewpoints from the Shetland email group, I was concerned that once again, we would have to consider separating the sheep into pastures but we let nature take its course and, voila, it worked! Sometimes I think all the human interference is unnecessary, but then I remembered the whole elbow deep in the uterus business, too. Perhaps we shepherds should only interfere when the health of the animal is in danger.

Speaking of, look at poor skin and bones Daisy. She acts like she feels fine, eats and walks around, but she is a shadow of her former self. From her appearance, I’m afraid she’s not long for this world but I am not about to begin meat goat chemo. Hopefully, she’ll rally but I am not counting on it. The sad truth about farming is it is full of heartbreak.

On a lighter note, I present the handsomeness that is Darby O’Gill, blessed with lovely crimped moorit fleece, nicely set horns, and a physique any ewe would lust after. He’s a looker, that Darby.

His twin sister Fiona is as well, though her shy personality made photographing her a challenge. She and her mother, Charlotte, almost look like the true twins. Fiona is just slightly smaller and has that wee bit of grey around her mouth. Other than that, their lovely faces are almost identical.

Until my departure Friday morning, I will endeavor to continue rediscovering my inner farmer and furnish the photos for proof. A very handsome rooster was begging to be photographed for posterity and I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.

Have You Seen My Inner Child?

Yesterday afternoon, the winds whipped up again, sustained at 30 mph, gusts over 50, and I played the adult. I mostly closed the windows, leaving them only slightly ajar to prevent implosion (a leftover behavior from my tornado days living in Oklahoma). Then, I huddled inside away from the dust and the chill and the flying debris and watched the lights flicker off and on, bracing myself to run out to turn off the well breaker if the power completely went out.

My children on the other hand did this.

The ruminants bucked and ran and played king or queen of the compost.

Daisy, always the odd goat out, just enjoyed the feeling of wind in her ears. Everyone was enjoying what I was avoiding.

I truly need to learn to be a kid again, to be that Audrey Hepburn character dancing in the Trevi Fountain, abandoning all self-consciousness and feeling really, truly free to be the me that got lost along the way doing laundry and worrying about bills and disciplining children. Sure, it comes out when I’ve had a wee nip or ten but that’s not what I mean. Where is my joie de vivre? I know what you’re thinking, especially you Margery. She has all these great farm animals that she loves and just the other day stuck her arm up a birth canal to bring new life into the world and doesn’t she get that joie from that. Well, yes I do, but it is fleeting and then the I-have-to-get-this-done or the I-feel-guilty-because-this-is-not-getting-done adult comes back. I wish she’d go away.

I want to be a non-substance-enhanced free-to-be-me kind of gal. I want to play in the sprinkler and spin in the breeze. I want to stand at the top of the stairs again like I did as a child back at Donnybrook with umbrella in hand waiting for the wind to lift me up like Mary Poppins and fly me over sights amazing. I still dream about it to this day so all is not lost. The kid is still there, skillfully playing hide and seek. I just have to find her.

Shave and a Haircut, Decidedly More Than Two Bits

As promised, Papa Ernie the Shearer arrived bright and early Saturday morning to shear all the ruminants with the exception of the alpacas (it takes two skilled shearers to shear an alpaca and, believe me, after our last experience attempting to shear, and the reaction we received from the sheep, we knew Papa Ernie was the only skilled shearer on the premises.) In the last few years, Son Ernie, who came to shear the goats last fall, has been doing the majority of the shearing jobs but has now opened a restaurant in addition to his other full-time job so has handed the shears back to Papa. As Papa taught Son, he knows what he is doing and more so, but as we all come to realize as the years creep on, certain physical things, like bending over shearing ruminants for two hours, aren’t as comfortable as they used to be. I felt for him (and his back.) Despite his discomfort, he did a great job.

We started with Cookie, our pliant and docile ewe who just yesterday had me convinced she was pregnant with twins. What a difference a shave and a haircut (two bits) have on size perception. Methinks I need to cut my own hair more often.

Here is Cookie in place just as the shearing began. She cannot do much in this position. Papa Ernie started with her belly wool which will come in handy as garden mulch and not much else as it is full of straw and other vegetal matter.

Look at her pregnant tummy that I am now convinced has one, not two lambs inside.

Is that my ass? Oh, my, I need to start walking again.

Papa Ernie turned Cookie this way and that as he worked, shearing a miraculous amount of lanolin-rich fleece from her body.

Look at the pretty, not quite svelte soon-to-be mama! She wasn’t spotted after her last shearing, funny how the fleece color changes

Speaking of, here is Leroy. We had a bit of difficulty getting him to the work area.

And I thought Cookie’s belly was a mess; oh well, more mulch for the garden.

Look at him! He’s not Leroy Brown anymore. I can’t say my silly Bad, bad Leroy Brown, baddest ram in the whole damned town bastardization of Jim Croce’s song again. The boy is all shades of gray, from charcoal to pearl. I am downright flabbergasted.

He is a shadow of his former self.

We somehow only got one shot of Carmela, the skittish freak. Catching her and getting her into position was a huge it’s-too-early-for-this ordeal. I was very happy with her fleece however. Curiously, she is not pregnant as we thought. Her breeder is going to be disappointed. We had a lamb trade-back deal worked out for a reduced combined ram and ewe price. I’m not sure how to handle this one.

Pearl was her usual psycho self when it comes to all things veterinary and groomy. We ended up throwing her in the cart to get her into place.

Unlike sheep, whose wool clings to itself, the Angora goats’ mohair goes everywhere.

Bill was the last to get the treatment, which greatly relieved me (notice great courage on my part posting both sans makeup and earlier with my big-fat-ass shot) and don't even tell me it's 8:30 am. We stopped shortly after. For a while.

David was relieved as well. It doesn’t take much with us. Open mouth; insert spiked beverage.

I’m not sure what we were doing while Charlotte was being shorn but here she is afterwards. Her belly is larger than Cookie’s

In conclusion, everyone is well, slimmer, and showing a better indication of what’s to come in ruminant land. Three weeks, baby, three weeks!

Can you even imagine waiting for the blessed event? I wonder if when labor comes on they’ll want to shower and get made up like I did. Stranger things have happened, particularly around here.

The Amazing Ernie, Shearer Extraordinaire

Baa, baa,

Angora

Goats
Have you any mohair?
Yes sir, yes sir,
Three bags to spare.

He came; he sheared; he saved us a helluva lot of work.

Ernie was amazing!  A third generation shearer, and a very nice guy, he easily wrangled the goats into position, using his abundant skills to cleanly rid the horned ruminants of their curly fleece without assistance from the rest of us. 

He started with

Pearl

.  We selected her first because she was misbehaving as usual and had jumped into the feed barrow and was chowing away on alfalfa unchallenged.  She does this every morning and I’m not sure who gets angrier because of it, me or the other ruminants.  Maybe a severe hair cut would teach her a lesson (it didn’t, she was right back in as soon as she was done.  That’s a goat for you.)  Ernie magically shifted her into position as

David

and I incredulously stared at one another, remembering the fiasco that was our shearing attempt and the animals' reaction to it.  It had taken two of us to badly accomplish the task this past spring yet Ernie worked alone and exponentially better. He turned her this way and that, and within fifteen minutes tops, she was as bald as Telly Savalas’s head.   

Elora, the youngest and smallest, was next, followed by Bill Withers, the largest and most ornery when confined.  We watched the progress with admiring awe and interest as did a growing group of neighborhood children, summoned by our midsize farmer Paul Reveres.  "The shearer is coming; the shearer is coming!" It was great fun.

You know, I often wish for household help, a maid to assist in the never-ending quest for a somewhat clean, bloodhound slobber-free home, and a gardener to deal with the omnipresent weeds and need for irrigation.  Today, however, I got someone more valuable than ten, maybe one hundred maids and gardeners, a professional shearer to cleanly rid the goats of their mohair and save us from another clumsy, amateurish, and exhausting effort. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have twenty pounds (yes, I measured) of yearling mohair to wash, card, and spin.  I sure love being a farmer!

Just Say No to Game Bird Feed

“Game bird feed” sounds innocuous enough.  It doesn’t sound off alarm bells or summon the DEA.  Despite this, I have come to believe it is a drug right up there with cocaine and heroin.  They all want it; they all crave it; they drive themselves crazy trying to get to it.  It came on rather gradually.  One day soon after we had begun to let the turkeys out of their pen during the day, I noticed Lucky, the alpaca, inside the bird pen eating out of the top of the turkey and duck food dispenser.  I chased him out and didn’t think much of it.  Well, apparently he liked it because he kept coming back and, even worse, he began to tell his fibery friends about the new delicious grainy high. 

Even when I did not catch them in the act, I saw the tell-tale dust of grain bird feed around their lips and noses.  Suddenly, the food dispenser began emptying at three to four times its previous rate and

David

and I began to scratch our collective heads trying to figure out a way to keep the ruminants, modified and no, out of the turkey and duck pen. 

David

mounted poles across the entrance to the enclosure, giving the strange impression that the birds were supposed to limbo out of their pen. It didn’t work; it was going to take more than a few poles to keep those wooly addicts from their drug of choice.  He added cross bars.  Nope.  String?  Still did not do the trick.    I had the what-I-thought-was-bright idea of attaching wire to the feeder itself, allowing beaks but not mouths access to the stuff.  Within minutes, Cookie was carefully sticking her tongue through the wire, eating the drug like Lik-m-ade candy.  By this point, we were frustrated beyond belief and almost ready to admit being defeated by a bunch of three and four stomached, cloven hooved, junkies. 

Then Leroy almost left the farm yard.  I heard him bleating, continuous but weak and when I went outside to see what the problem was, he could barely walk.  He tried, brave boy, but fell over on his back, legs useless in the air and belly distended.  I got him back up and in the shade and ran inside to call the vet.  Before doing so, I quickly looked up his symptoms and figured he had eaten the GBF and was bloating.  I knew nothing could be done that didn’t involve emergency surgery and monstrous vet bills and, although I love the little guy, right now we just can’t shell out thousands on a ram lamb that cost us $200.  I sat with him, tried to keep him comfortable, and prayed.  He seemed a little better.  I began checking on him every twenty minutes and then thirty and then began sending one of the kids to do it as he improved. 

This morning he is none the worse for wear but sadly and frustratingly, did not learn his lesson because he was right back in the turkey pen eating the damned druggy grain first chance he got.  I put the turkeys back in and had resigned myself to just keeping them penned but felt too guilty as they looked at me in confusion (granted they do this a lot already) and gobbled. 

What did I do?  At 7 am, unsuitably farmered up in jammies and flip flops, I grabbed the wire cutters and fashioned a turkey door, hopefully small enough to keep the addicts out and large enough to let the turkeys roam.  The jury is still out on whether the newest solution is a success or not.  The ruminants have not gotten in but the turkeys, who have consistently escaped their pen despite our efforts to contain them, have not figured out the obvious means of exit.  My confidence in their intelligence is waning.  At least, they’re enjoying the new picture window.