Music, Animals and Attitude: Anna

Our farm animals are, well, a bit on the wild side. When Andrew needs to round them up, he uses a combination of stealth and trickery, with a healthy dose of sheer luck. We deliberately picked hardy stock, the kind that fend largely for themselves.

Enter Anna. Who has an infinite amount of patience, not heard of among anyone else in the family.

Anna the sheep whisperer

She can spend hours hanging out with the animals. Waiting for them not to fear her, waiting for them to get close, waiting to become friends with them.

Anna and Freedom the Llama

Farm Humour

Grace came in crying this morning. One of the cute chicks we bought the other week is dead in the coop.

It happens. Chicks have a high mortality. What made this one worse was that it didn't die, exactly, but was more murdered. By one of its flock mates.

The pecking order is so named for a reason. It's brutal and disgusting, but there you have it.

Life on a farm has its share of horrible moments. Lambs die because their mother's don't feed them, sometimes even if we find them on time. Sheep die because coyotes attack. The other week the farm dog needed a paw treated for a really gross infection that had my stomach churning. All our cats vanished one week - probably fishers, but who really knows. And chickens can be really, really mean.

But these moments are few and far between really. And I like to think Erik and Anna and Grace are growing up aware of the delicate balance of life.

The children were sad. They were upset. They were looking for solutions to stop it happening again. Erik got to dispose of the body (because, you know, Mom is a wuss).

The three of them looked at it wistfully.It's head was off. Not completely though, just sort of detached.

You know, said Anna, we never named that one. I guess its name is Nearly Headless Chick*.

I've heard that doctors and police detectives develop a rather grim sense of humour to deal with the dark side of humanity. The dark side of farming has its own grim humour.


*Only funny if you're a Harry Potter fan, and familiar with the ghost of Griffyndor.

Angry Birds

I am one of those people who hides all game updates on facebook. I don't care about farmville, or wheel of fortune, or mafia wars, or angry birds...

Then this week I realised that I have my very own version of angry birds right here.

A couple of weeks ago I was out in my rhubarb patch collecting stalks for a cake and with a startling, chirping whoosh, this little lady flew past me, sat on the nearby current bush, and proceeded to shout at me.

As I cut the rhubarb, I realised why. She had a nest of eggs in there. For the past few weeks, evertime I have gone to get rhubarb, she's been there telling me off, and I've been cautiously picking rhubarb that doesn't disturb her nest.

Hey, it's my rhubarb!

Then there is my starling. She is nesting in the rafters between the new veranda and the roofline, where it is not quite finished. And every time I go out the front door, there's a flutter of panicked wings and she brushes past me to sit on a telephone wire and hurl insults at me.

What are you doing? Get away from my nest.

Hmmph. It's my veranda!

There are a couple of fighting robins too. As I sit outside in the afternoon with my coffee, watching Mamma Starling bring food to her young (who get louder each day - mom, mom, mom, mom - just like kids), the robins dance and squawk and chase and squawk and fight each other in flight and on the trees. So much for the peaceful countryside.

And this morning, my angry rhubarb nesting bird got even grumpier, flying at Anna and Grace whenever they got too close to the rhubarb.

The reason...

See those little guys in there...

Angry birds, indeed.

On Guard

We have a ton of lambs outside. Mewling and bleating and skipping and gamboling. There is a game they play where they creep up to the sleeping guard dog. Closer and closer and closer until...one of the lambs dares to touch her and--

Rrrruff!

They scatter, the dog goes back to sleep, and five minutes later the lambs come creeping back.

Tundra is our guard dog, a beautiful Great Pyrenees whose gentle nature with the kids, the lambs, and our house dog is matched by a fierce and protective ferocity when coyotes come near. Seriously, we have seen her rip a coyote into shreds. Since we got her we have had zero kills among our little flock. And that's good news.

But I wonder sometimes, what she is really thinking? Protect the little helpless lambs?

Or Dinner?

Dear Angus:

Dear Angus;

When your were born, a tiny calf on a dairy farm, they didn't want you. You were too small, and of no use to anyone.

I took you. I hand fed you milk. I brought you warm bottles at first, and then pails, trudging up the snowy track in minus 20 degree weather, in snow, and sleet, every morning before work.

I cleaned out your stall. I turned you loose once the new grass of spring was here and made sure you had young shoots to whet your appetite.

Yes, I know I shot you with a stun gun too, but seriously, you wouldn't have wanted to go through that little operation awake.

For a year and a half now, I have had hay brought in in the winter, and allowed you to roam free through the pastures all summer, sheltering under the apple trees, playing with the other steers.

And this, this, is how you repay me. By leaping over the fence, churning up my gardens, eating my new flowers, and stomping on my freshly planted bulbs?

And then you tried to walk up the stone steps to the patio door! Did you really think I would let you in?

Really, Angus. This is too bad.

Be a good little steer and go back to the field now, will you.

And take those darn lambs with you!

Why I Am Not As Productive As I Want To Be

If I only had that third hand, think of what I could accomplish!

Sure Signs of Spring

Wellingtons and Cleats in the Mudroom.

Cherry Blossom Budding

Muddy, Dirty, Tailgate

Garden Waiting To Be Tilled;

Wood Waiting To Be Stacked & Dried

Maple. Ash. Come Back To Me Now.

(This was me channeling Treebeard)

New Grass Seeding. New Path.

My Darling Spirea Shrubs. Hmm. And Weeds.

Pastoral Sheep

One of them on the wrong side of the fence

(Because they truly believe the grass is always greener.)

Barnyard politics

I sat outside in the weak spring sun the other day, with a cup of coffee, my camera, and a smile as I watched barnyard politics in action. The lambs get away with a lot, they're so cute, but there's one or two crusty sheep who get a bit stroppy once in a while ~ when a lamb uses them as a stepping stone, for example, in a shortcut across the meadow. And just as in life, there's always one over-protective mother whose lambs stand dutifully by her side while their playmates frolic merrily. Rozenlynda quite clearly feels the other lambs are way out of line - she's practically frowning out there. Not that the other mothers care. And the rams stand nonchalently off to the side (unless they're sparring with the bull), as if to say, we've done our bit. Now leave us alone.

Nothing beats the blues faster than a field full of lambs. They skip, they chase, they leap, they play. No worries, no fears, just enthusiastic gambolling. Nowhere is off limits. They're on the hay bales, up in the rock pile, climbing over each other in what looks like a never-ending quest to be "King of the Mountain."

Guaranteed to put a smile on anyone's face!

Good for the Goose

The neighbour across the river left a message on our answering machine two days ago. By the time we finally tracked him down - leaving two messages of our own in the process - we were curious as to what he wanted.

Maybe he wanted to know if Andrew still cleared snow?

Maybe he wanted someone to hay his field this summer?

Maybe the sound of our sheep dog barking at coyotes (and the occasional train) was driving him nuts?

The interesting thing about having a reputation for eccentricity is that you never know what surprises lie in store. In this case, the neighbour had a goose that was getting violent and he wanted to know:

1. If we knew how to deal with a violent goose;
2. If we wanted the goose; and
3. If we knew how to butcher, pluck, and cook a goose.

Now how many people can claim to be so sought after?

Little Lambs

Andrew bought day old still wet twin lambs into the house a week ago after their mother decided to walk away from them. We dried them, put them beside the fire, and hand fed them lamb replacement formula through a tube at first, and later from beer bottles (which just happen to be the right size to fit the lamb bottle nipples we keep in stock).

Most sheep are wonderful mothers, but it happens every year that there are some who just can't figure it out. Sometimes it's because Mom knows best, and the lamb is ill - that happened the first year with Oliver Twist who died after a week. Last year we had no abandoned lambs, but the year before we had the memorable duo of Portia and Jessica who would leap out of their box at night and tap dance on the tiles in the kitchen. They are having babies of their own this year.

So while the other lambs frolic and skip outside, these two were in here. Frolicing and skipping. Bleating and wagging their little tails when they see us. And for all the annoyance of having babies in the house theat need to be bottlefed every few hours, they are really really cute. Totally adorable.

Every morning after feeding, the girls take them outside to play while I clean out their crate and put fresh sawdust down. Back in they come, feed again, and fall into a heap together to sleep.

There is nothing so sweet as a baby lamb, and they quickly become favourites - even the dog and cats like them. But what in the end do you do with baby lambs?

After a couple of weeks, they can stay outside in the pen, but we still have to feed them formula until the snow goes and the young green grass is ready. And then there is the reintroduction to the flock which takes time. Sheep are so darn cliquey.

But last year we had a woman contact us looking to buy a baby lamb for a pet. She has a small property with a goat, some chickens and a small pony or two. We dug out her email and asked if she'd be interested in two lambs. And she said yes.

One of the things we do here is sell breeding stock. Increase the rare Jacob herd where possible. These two are not purebreds, but they are perfect for pets.

Andrew took them to work this morning, and the lady is going to pick up these two beautiful creatures. I'm happy for them, but it was difficult to say goodbye. The kids cried last night when we told them. And I am dreading the moment they come down and realise the lambs are not here.

Lines to a lamb

I have to admire your hardiness.

It was minus 22 degrees out yesterday. And windy. Probably the coldest day of the winter so far.

If I were you I'd have waited until the first balmy days of spring. Or timed it for last week when we had a mild spell.

But you arrived yesterday, a tiny wet bundle of newborn lamb, shivering under the timbers of the lean-to, next to your mother. Wobbling on tiny legs, your tail wiggliing furiously when you found milk - the sign we look for to assure ourselves you have found nourishment.

The first lamb of 2010.

Goldfish

We got goldfish at Christmas. The tank was a present for Grace, and there are five fish - one for each of us. There's Goldie (Anna's fish), Theodore (Grace's fish), Fish (Andrew's fish), Simon (Erik's fish) and Sinatra (my fish).

I should say there were five. But this morning we woke up to find Goldie floating belly up on top of the tank and there were tears.

I wanted him to get big and fat.

Why was it my fish?

This is a nightmare. (Anna has a flair for drama)

So among my other talents this morning – breakfast maker, dog walker, pet feeder, skate finder, lunch packer, sock matcher, pizza dough maker – I also got to be grief counselor and funeral director.

Whew! They should pay us moms more!

Twilight

We have our own version of Twilight.

Strap on Snowshoes around 4:30 pm and trek off into the fields towards the woods.

Don't forget to bring a sled of snacks just in case you get hungry.

Or in case someone gets tired of trudging.

Follow the curve of the river and dare to enter the enchanted forest.

And when Twilight threatens to turn into night, be guided back home by the distant yellow lamplight.

Lots of Twilights here. But no vampires or werewolves.

Unless....

Thoughts On A Clear November Morning

I awoke three times in the night.

The first time I woke up, it was more sort of a roll over as Andrew left my small thermos of coffee next to the bed before he left for the dairy at 4:30am. The second time was to hear a small dog barking by the river and groggily realise it was actually a coyote yipping, a warm up for the group coyote howl which followed. I was awake then, momentarily. until reassured by the deep barking that followed that Tundra the sheepdog had the situation in hand,  I fell back into sleep. It was around 5:30am. The third time was at 6:30am when Grace punched her way into the room (in her usual delicate fashion) to tell me the dog had thrown up three times in their room. It reminded me of Mother's Day last May, and I lay back on my pillow, sipping my coffee, reflecting that I'd seen the dog in the back fields yesterday and wondering just what disgusting things she'd been into.

I felt a bit like Scrooge - like I'd been visited three times in the night - and like Scrooge, by the time I was finally awake, the sun was shining, the sky was bright and clear, and I felt full of joy and optimism.

November, on the cusp of both fall and winter, can be a bit of a bleak month, but I've always found it beautiful in its austerity. If October is like a king (think Henry VII), resplendently robed in gold and crimson, November is like a nun, (think Mother Superior from The Sound of Music), simple and pure and wise.

And as I sit here this morning, gazing out the window, past the pine trees and over the field towards the river and the forest behind, I am thinking only good thoughts.

Except of the dog. She is still disgusting.

Meet Amelia.

Does this look like a happy dog?

Didn't think so. What's the matter, Lady?

She's a bit grumpy because of this.

Meet Amelia.

She's so cute - scurrying and scampering and chasing tails (hers and Lady's).

(Lady: I can be adorable. I can be endearing.)

 Hard to compete with this, though.

Goodbye, Amadeus

Amadeus

1996-2009

We miss you already.

Puppy Love

She's not a puppy anymore.

Just turned 5 in fact.

Crazy, slobbering hyperactive, hairy mutt.

But she loves me.

And that's worth something.

Cats

Grace took bunch of pictures of the cats the other day.

Good morning, Boys.

-

This is Amadeus. He is 14. He's the first pet Andrew and I got together. Andrew already had a cat - named S***head, who I promtly renamed Aslan. Aslan was my friend forever because of that. He died just a couple of years back aged about 17.

-

When we got Amadeus, he was a cute ball of fur who used to attack my already old dog, Laika. She used to hate him.

-

Amadeus is old now, but in his prime he was a magnificent cat - all 15 pounds of muscle, He also has the softest fur of any cat I've ever know, and he has an annoying habit of jumping on me, kneading my shoulder, and drooling down my arm. Yeah, that's lovely.

-

And this is his nemesis - King Arthur, otherwise known as Wart.

Go and catch some mice, Arthur.

-

He's not as kingly as his name suggests. But we had high hopes. He's about 4, and takes off for days at a time. He always comes back though.

-

Amadeus is ever hopeful. He is a very optomistic creature. I just know if I sit here and look cute, she'll feed me salmon.

He has an endearing face, but it's never worked.

-

In between these two were a bunch of others. Agamemnon (all our cats have A names) who was eaten by a fisher. Anastasia, who adopted us without telling us she was expecting kittens - she is now living with Andrew's grandma in Kanata. She has the good life - don't tell Amadeus, but I know she gets salmon! Ace - one of her offspring, who just disappeared.

-

But these orange cats seem to withstand the test of time.