Pretending to Farm

I Am David

Morning farm chores have taken on a new urgency, unseen before the Great Coyote Massacre of 2007. The small envelope between darkness and dawn is now a crucial time, a time in which the coyotes are still on the prowl and Lauren, the sole surviving turkey (irony noted), gets the urge to alight from her roost in the over-the-coop Palo Verde tree and take a morning stroll. Why she does this I don’t know. She’s seen bloodshed; she’s seen an all-out poultry massacre as a matter of fact but she still needs to get out. I suppose I can identify with my turkey namesake.

It is during this ominous timeframe that we Pretend Farmers are on tenterhooks.

Has she come down from the tree yet? Is the yard safe? Is Spartacus on guard?

On most days, it works out just fine and our worries are for naught, that is as long as we do our duty as good farmers and open the coop gate for Lauren, stand back, and let her decide on her own (because no one living on these premises named Lauren can be forced into doing anything against her will) to deign to enter the enclosure. At this point, we open the locked-up hen house to witness the pullets and cockerels pop out the door and throw scratch to one and all.

By the way, the GCM-surviving elder stateswomen stay perched on their roost, staring down their beaks with disdain at the grain-gobbling teenagers.

They are so new poultry.

On Monday, however, all went to Hell in a handbasket. As I have told you before, we Supermaxed the duck pen. Impenetrable (knock on wood) steel mesh covers its ceiling, chicken wire and rebar is dug three feet into the ground around it, and a block wall that one day I will get around to painting finishes the sides. The chicken coop now has ten-foot fencing and similar ground reinforcement.

What used to be the turkey pen has been neglected. Sadly abandoned, its structure has begun to resemble the rotting tobacco shacks of my North Carolina youth. Since we do not have any more turkeys except for Lauren who prefers the company of chickens to no one, it has not been Supermaxed. Back to Monday.

With three bloodhounds in tow, Hunky Husband headed out to insure Lauren would follow her routine and that our fine feathered friends were all safe. Instead, what he found was a scrawny and wily coyote in the abandoned turkey pen. I suppose normally the coyote, seeing a human heading his way, would have swiftly jumped over the non-Supermaxed gate and high-tailed it out of there. You should all know by now, however, that we are not normal and normal things do not happen to us. This is my life; this is how it has always been. David just happened to acquire it by marriage.

David opened the gate but the coyote, paralyzed by the fear of three snarling and bellowing 120+ pound bloodhounds whose volume out-crescendo-ed the Met just backed up and snarled (the featured photo is a re-enactment). He tried to exit via the back of the pen but that part was Supermaxed with the ten foot fence and although he made it a good seven or eight feet, ten was too much for him. Enter David, assuming his Biblical namesake and persona.

Armed with thick pigskin gloves, he grabbed the coyote and the beast bit him (but thankfully did not break the skin or that would have been a whole ‘nuther story). Chaos ensued and I’m actually not completely sure how the match went for a while (and could certainly not give you a take down, reversal, or pin point count) but, in long, David managed to muzzle the creature with clenched hand and throw him over the ten foot fence to the mercy of the German Shepherds next door. Adrenaline is a beautiful thing.

Thus ends the tale (and maybe the tail) of the RVCWA’s (Rio Verde Coyote Wrestling Association’s) latest match. Hunky Husband came out the victor and all the farm animals, both fibered and feathered, stood high and proclaimed, “I am David.” (I suppose it was a pre-emptive measure in case the coyotes were planning to punish the man.) Me? I’m just proud of him… and also glad it wasn’t me out there.

At a Loss

I plodded around yesterday like a better-skin-than-average-zombie zombie, intermittently crying while I folded laundry and spun Cookie’s 2nd shearing (because men are large and a full Shetland lamb fleece unfortunately does not provide enough yarn for the Favorite Sweater Sweater). I was definitely unable to post to the blog.

They got him. Those sons-of-bitches otherwise known as coyotes, those formerly-liked canine latrans whose numbers have increased here as the development has continued over there; they killed my favorite turkey, Rubius, the only tom we had left. I still cry when I think of it; I loved that bird. They also got Big Red, our only remaining rooster (our bitch of a neighbor will be happy), and one of the Narragansett hens, the one who stayed in the Pen of Misfit Fowl beside Rubius. From our original eight turkeys, we have one hen left.

I interrupted the attack; it was early morning, just before dawn, and Hunky Husband had just taken the boys to the bus stop. I heard a huge racket of turkey squawks and screams and ran out the side door to the big yard, finding Marshall, guard dog that he isn’t, cowering against the door. I yelled that haah-sound that seems to work with the goats and in the dim light saw coyotes just on the other side of the fence. The whole thing lasted maybe 30 seconds and I thought I had chased them off in time. When David returned, he had that look and mumbled something about tragedy and that was when I realized they had taken the other two but only had time to kill Rubius and not drag his 40 pound used-to-be lovely body away. I am beginning to hate farming.

The only good part of this is that, since I scared them off, they were unable to get the ducks who share that same pen. David and the boys repaired and reinforced the top netting that the coyotes broke through and Fort Knox-ed it up again but I have no optimism left. They took my Rubius; I loved my Rubius.

As much as I enjoyed their company, I’m not getting any more turkeys. It’s too hard to lose them.

If you were wondering where Spartacus was, well he was in the yard. The coyotes did not step in the yard. They balance-beamed the wall separating us from our neighbors and broke in the pen from on high. We found their muddy footprints as proof. If nothing else, they are crafty murderers, Wiley Coyote indeed.

As much as I have dreamed of it, maybe I wasn’t cut out to be farmer, even a pretend one. I love the animals too much; I think of them as pets and not livestock or poultry. Around here, pets are family and I can’t handle losing my family members, especially at the recent speed it has occurred. I have to think over this a while. I’m not getting rid of what we have but my goal of retiring on acres upon acres on a real farm might need redreaming. Loss injures the sensitive soul and, if nothing else, I am very sensitive.

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.

Once upon a time...

...there lived a Silver Spangled Hamburg named Wayneisha, named after a Hurricane Katrina victim. Her counterpart, Rolexis, with the same name origins, had been brutally mauled by Marshall the Bloodhound who thought she was a whatchugot and not a real, living chicken.

All her life, Wayneisha has wanted to be a mother, an active mother, going through the entire cycle of laying, setting, hatching, and raising chicks of her own. Alas, it never happened. A few Silver Spangled Hamburg eggs were incubated but, as they were stolen by the humans, she never knew if the chicks that returned to the coop were indeed hers or those of one of her counterparts. Plus, by the time the chicks were allowed to enter coop-world, they were old enough to care for themselves and didn’t need a momma to love, protect, and care for them the way Wayneisha wanted to do.

After years of failure and her biological clock ticking, Wayneisha was ready to adopt.

Enter Severus. Wayneisha was somewhat aware of Severus’ origins since she liked to hang out with the turkeys more often than she did with the chickens. They were quieter and mellower and enjoyed the occasional intellectual discussion. She knew that the wild turkey (the bird, not the booze) who would rather wander on her own instead of staying in the safety of the turkey pen had gotten eaten by wild dogs called coyotes and that the eggs that remained in her nest had been taken away by the humans.

A month later, the human who farms in pajamas (rather than the one who farms in boxers) brought a beautiful grey and blonde baby named Severus to the turkey known as Lynda and set him underneath her wing. Wayneisha was envious and set her plan to order. After all, she had seen the turkey leave her nest of poults before more often than she deemed prudent.

Offering friendship and poult-care relief, Wayneisha sidled into the nesting box with Lynda and drank in the smell of baby, a perfume better than new car, a smell unduplicated by anything or anyone. She longed for this child. Finally, she had her chance. Lynda, feeling hot and claustrophobic, left to stretch her wings and Wayneisha extended hers. She bonded with baby Severus, cooed sweet nothings in his ear, and offered him praises unheard from his duller in color and personality up-until-then caregiver. He was smitten.

When Lynda returned, she saw what had happened in her absence but, as she was already jaded by the loss of poults in the past and since she also knew what a self-sacrificing individual Wayneisha was, she put aside her feelings and allowed the hen to take over Severus’ care.

Today, Wayneisha and Severus are inseparable as they scratch, drink, eat, and sleep. At night, they jump as one into the nesting box and whisper their hopes and aspirations to each other until together they let their eyelids droop and fall into Dreamworld.

Let’s hope they live happily ever after.

Mwahaha!

Today marks a momentous occasion here at our little pretend farm. You see, a particular so-ugly-he’s-cute house fowl, the two-faced lover of males/attacker of females formerly known as “Ma Boy” made an error of judgment last night and got between Hunky Husband and his favorite snack, “Smart Food.” When rebuffed by said husband, the very bad turkey attacked the hand that fed him and with that, the honeymoon was over. Apparently, it was cute when the bird brutally pecked at Jessica and me but not so much when he had the audacity to jump in the air and lash David with his wing. Yes, ladies and germs, Zorro has made the journey from indoor cage to outdoor misfit fowl pen. Let the celebration begin!

At first, Zorro seemed to think it was a regular farm chore morning. For some time, he has been joining us out in the big yard, running around while we fed, watered, and scooped, and then, before he became too hot and tired, returning to the air conditioned comfort of his cage.

Not so fast buddy. You’re staying out here today. And every day from now on. (Imagine my maniacal laughter echoing through the desert. I just wish I had a white cat on my lap to stroke.)

Once in the pen of misfit fowl, he searched for a way to get out, imagined scaling the walls or tunneling through the mud but saw no escape.

He felt dejected.

Rubius, who used to be the picked upon, was thrilled to be joined by someone he could now dominate. “See how gianormous I am, little turk. I am king of the Pen of Misfit Fowl and you will follow my every order.”

How did the rest of the misfit fowl handle the situation? Well, Big Red and the ducks donned their invisibility cloaks and pretended to see something just on the other side of the fence. Conflict is avoided at all cost in The Pen of Misfit Fowl. They all have to sleep together after all.

Zorro has now accepted his fate though I think he regrets his actions of the night before. He’ll regret them even more when he realizes how damned hot it gets out there by midafternoon. After all, yesterday the greater Phoenix area set a new heat record by reaching the 29th day of 110 degree or above heat. Yet, if I begin to feel sorry for the boy, all I have to do is glance down at the numerous bruises he has inflicted upon me and the maniacal laughter begins again.

Where is that white cat when I need him?

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?

Emerging from Their Shells

The turkey hens’ determination to be mothers continues with limited success. The first wee chick, Fenrir drowned, creating great guilt and sorrow on my part. The chick waterers we typically provide were being used by house fowl so I put about ½” of water in a pie plate of water for him. Despite appearances, it was too much and we found his little body that evening during farm chores. It was very sad and it has taken me almost a full week to get past the guilt enough to share the news with you.

Lightening our spirits, however, is the arrival of two more poults, the final descendants of Jessica the Turkey. You see, when Turkey Jess was eaten by coyotes, she left behind a small clutch of three eggs and we did the only thing emotionally-driven, bleeding heart farmers could do and stuck them in the incubator. (Yes, Mother, I lied to you the other night when you asked if we were incubating eggs; I wasn’t up for the lecture. I’m very sorry.)

Yesterday afternoon, the first hatched, looking very much the clone of his or her cousin Zorro and fathered by yet another rainbow-bridge-crossed-over-bird, Alamo. This morning the second poult arrived, less vibrant and weaker than the first but alive nonetheless. We are hoping he is just tired from all that pecking to get out of his shell and will find his inner turkey spirit soon. One egg still remains. Whether it is viable or not, we do not know but candling revealed a presence inside. We shall see (and continue obsessively looking into the incubator every five minutes throughout the day).

Despite protests to the contrary from Hunky Husband (“How could you just put those defenseless babies outside?!”), I placed the newest fowl under Lynda the Turkey’s wing where they are happily bonding with their own species. With atypical honesty with myself, I have decided I cannot physically or emotionally handle any more house fowl. We are hoping for the best but if the worst decides to happen, that is nature and I will not beat myself up about it. My body is doing that to me just fine without any outside help.

By the way, we did get a new chick water dispenser. Something else might get them, but they’re not going to drown (knock on wood, granite, and any other surface within reach).

Hi Ho!

Alert the seven dwarves because if my state of mind is any indication, they are missing Grumpy. The heat, the flies, and the turkey are all conspiring to interfere with life’s enjoyments. They must stop.

First of all, the fly invasion has reached epidemic proportions. If I had a dollar for every fly I have killed in the past three days, mangling swatters in the process, I could pay off the national debt thrice over. They are everywhere. Every time I kill one, two more arrive to take its place. In a mostly futile attempt to do something about the flies, Hunky Husband ventured to the big orange home improvement warehouse/ independent hardware store murderer and purchased a full case of stinky fly traps. We hung them everywhere, at each entrance to the house, in the ruminant pen, and along the fence lines. Thankfully, the termite inspector serendipitously arrived at our house yesterday morning only to tell us that these traps, although they work, attract flies from a ½ mile radius. Perhaps hanging them at each back door wasn’t such a great idea, huh? They are all along the fence lines now and away from the house and will hopefully soon do their job. Right now though, flies are once again the bane of my existence.

Then there’s Zorro (insert Maude soundtrack here). He hates me and the feeling is mutual. Like some spoiled Eddie Haskell-ite, he acts all nice when David is around but the minute his head is turned, WAM, he attacks me. This morning I awoke to something stepping across me (I wish I could say this was unique) and opened my eyes in time to see the bad boy poised to strike. BAM, he got me right in the eye. Turkey cutlets, anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

I’m not even going to talk about the heat. I’m exhausted just relaying my foul (fowl) mood as it is and I’m sure you are tired of hearing about it.

Light glows distantly at tunnel’s end however. We have another month or so of bad heat, hopefully relieved by the return of the monsoon, and then I get to go to Minnesota, land of 10,000 lakes and beautiful sheep. More to come (like the benefits of asking Hunky Husband if one can travel to Minnesota when said man has had a few drinks and wifely duties have been thoroughly completed).

Farming for Sanity

Ah, Sunday morning, time to read the newspaper and drink coffee on the back patio as the house fowl run in and around the pool. Then, it is off to make blackberry cobbler for our Bloody Mary morning at favorite neighbors Tom and Michelle’s around ten. I am really looking forward to this day. Jessica is home to baby-sit a Pint whilst we get rare adult time and conversation. Yet, just as I pull out the mixing bowls, Hunky Husband comes inside from farm chores to say he just saw “something” being born in the turkey pen. Something, hmm.

Sighing, I throw down my tea towel and march outside only to be greeted by the hisses of turkey hens protecting their nests. But aren’t they finished laying for the season? I haven’t gathered a turkey egg for quite some time and have been leaving the unsociable-since-becoming-mothers turkeys to their own devices. Mastering what little bravery I have, I lift Lauren the Turkey just a tad to look underneath her and, guess what, find a whole clutch of chicken eggs. Joy. Looking for an excuse to remain in her box eating bonbons and watching her soaps, Lauren apparently decided to adopt and was liberal-minded in her choices of adoptees. We had recently decided not to add any more fowl for the near future because literally and figuratively, we are spent.
Yet there in amongst the un-hatched and hopefully unfertilized eggs was this little guy, Fenrir Greyback, still wet from the newness of coming into this wacky world of ours.

David and I look pointedly at each other and sigh, our shoulders collectively dropping a good two inches in the acceptance. I guess there are more to come and a brooding box will need setting up if these guys have any chance for survival.

I want to be a farmer; I want to be a farmer; I want to be a farmer. (Just keep repeating this to yourself Lauren. You know it’s the truth; it’s just a tad overwhelming at times.)

Rancho Laurena, Where the Sheep Are Nervous

Yesterday and today have been filled with back-to-school errands and preparations, the kind that keep me running here and there constantly, filling out a myriad of paperwork (in duplicate, twins remember?), and spending a small fortune on supplies. To bribe a certain Pint-Sized Farmer into good or at least acceptable behavior during all these goings-on, I bought him an inexpensive plush sheep toy. It made a sighing sort of squeak when smushed and was soft and cuddly.

Like most purchased toys however, it soon lost its appeal, particularly while we waited at the CVS clinic for tetanus shots for the boys and were surrounded by racks upon racks of greeting cards, so fun for a wee toddler to destroy and a weary grandmother to restock.

When we finally arrived home, I haphazardly threw the sheep toy on our bed. David remarked on it; the boys showed him how it squeaked.

Then Zorro got into the act.

Zorro was intrigued, to put it mildly, by the plush sheep.

First, he circled the poor thing, puffing out his juvenile feathers to impress her.

Then, he started pecking at her, at her ears, her eyes, her neck. Although inanimate, I began to feel sorry for the poor thing. I thought he was attacking her; I was sadly mistaken.

Missionary position on top (literally) of it all. And Marshall watched. Ewww. The sheep just laid there but Zorro didn't seem to mind.

Just when I thought this household couldn’t get any stranger, I find we have a perverted turkey who thoroughly enjoys carnal knowledge of plush toys. Of course, David called him a stud. Males.