Midnight Chase

     It started in the afternoon and at that point it wasn’t too crazy.  Joe spotted a heifer out in the field, trying to calve, and after giving her a couple of hours to  push on her own, he decided that we had better get her in.  So, he came to the house and asked if I would come with him. 

     I  drove the truck out and parked it next to the barn, angled so that it made a funnel that would hopefully send the heifer into the open gate.  Joe took the four-wheeler and drove to the far end of the snow-covered field.  He was a quarter mile away from me and across the river.  I wasn’t feeling very hopeful that he could work this one heifer all the way back to the barn, but he did. 

     She wasn’t too spooky and she churned up a frothy wave of snow as she ran just a little ahead of him. Within twenty minutes, the heifer was in the barn.  I swung the gate shut after her. I should have known that nothing on the farm is that easy.

     Once she was inside, we could see that the heifer had been trying to calve for a while.  The bag of amniotic fluid dangled and swung behind her like a pendulum as she moved around, and Joe said that he had seen two hooves slide in and out while she was running down the field.  But, the calf pulling equipment was six miles away on our other farm, so we locked the cow in the barn and went back to the house to call youngest son, Scott, who was down there.  He said he‘d be up soon with the pullers.  I went back into the house to fix supper.

     By the time Scott came home with the pullers, it was dark.  When they went out to the barn, Joe and Scott discovered that the cow had broken the lock on the gate and pushed her way out into the night. They came back to tell me.  It was snowing again, and pitch black outside, but Joe said that he and Scott could get the cow back in, so I waited in the house.

     Occasionally, I looked out the windows to gauge their progress.  I could see their truck lights bouncing up and down as they searched for the heifer and then, after a while, I could see her shadowy form racing in front of the trucks.  They headed to the barn and I thought they must have captured her, but fifteen minutes later, I looked out and the truck lights were stabbing wildly across the field, going in the opposite direction, as they bounced in hot pursuit of the cow, again.

     I jumped in my vehicle and drove out.  The snow was falling harder.  I parked against the gate, making a funnel again, and then stepped out into the darkness.  There was nothing but wind and blowing snow and the occasional glimpse of truck lights far away in the field to keep me company.        As I waited and watched, the cold air drove snow pellets into my collar and under my hat.  It was so quiet. Then, the truck lights turned and headed my way, and once again, I could see the shadowy form of the heifer moving in the beams.  She dropped down into the river channel and ran along, so Scott jumped out of his truck and followed her, his flashlight beam dimmed by the curtain of snow.  I turned my flashlight on, so they would know where I was, but the cow veered out of the river channel, turned and galloped back the way she had come.

     I returned to the warm truck and Joe and Scott drove up the field, following the cow through a water gap and into another field.  After a while, I realized that they were three fields away, so I drove back to the house, parked, and slogged through the snow to the hill where I could see their lights.  Both Joe and Scott were out of their trucks in hot pursuit, flashlight beams and choice words flying around.  Once again, the heifer eluded them, so they gave up and drove back to the house.

     After supper, and some time to warm up, Scott said there was a good chance that the heifer's labor would stop and then she and the calf would both die if we couldn't get her in and help.  He pulled on his boots and bibs and headed out again to look for her.

     At midnight, he still hadn’t returned. I can see almost a mile in all directions from our upstairs windows, but I couldn’t see his lights anywhere so Joe and I dressed for the cold again, and went out into the night.  The snow had stopped and the moon made shadows under the trees, but the only sign of Scott was a set of four-wheeler tracks headed south through the fields.  I feared that he had wrecked somewhere.

     We drove a mile, over small ridges and through two gates.  The four wheeler tracks disappeared at the river.  We were about to turn around,  when we saw a flash of light in our neighbor's barn.    When we got there, Scott met us.  He was covered in blood, but it was the heifer's, not his.  He had managed to rope her, tie her to the barn and pull the calf. The red stains on his hands and down his coveralls were her afterbirth.

     After all of this, the calf was alive.  

     We let mama and calf out, yesterday, and both are doing fine.

     Spring has come early on our farm, with temperatures well above normal for the last couple of weeks.  The trees are all pushing out buds and I'm wishing I could run around and push them back in.  It's too early and we are in danger of losing our fruit crops if there's a hard freeze, which there is sure to be.  It's only March 1st and in Highland that usually means at least a month and a half more of winter.
    The calves and lambs are coming, but for them, it is time.  Only, instead of being ahead of schedule, they are a bit behind.  Especially the lambs.  Last autumn was warm and sheep don't breed well in warm weather.  So, the girls are taking their sweet time.
    Joe and I pulled a calf a couple of days ago.  Joe spotted the cow out in the field in the morning when he left for work.  She was lying off by herself, and she was too far away to tell for sure, but he said she appeared to be straining.  When he came home, that afternoon, the cow was in the same spot and when she stood up, there was plenty of placental material hanging out her back end, but no calf on the ground.
    So, he hopped on the four wheeler and persuaded her to make the short trip to our back lot.  I helped him get her in the pen and then we moved her into the head chute.  Joe had me stand at the end where the lever is, and gave me instructions to "pull hard when her ears come through."
     I'm always afraid that I'll pull too late, and the cow will escape, but I got it right this time.  With a clang, the gates slammed shut, trapping her head on one side and the rest of her on the other.  Joe walked up behind her, rolling up his sleeves, and then slipped his hand up inside the old girl.  He had to go in all the way to his shoulder before he found the problem.
     The little calf was what we call "bass ackwards."  He was trying to come out tail first.  So, I spoke soothing words to the mama (which really doesn't help her at all, but makes me feel better) while he fished around inside her trying to find a back leg that he could grab.  Finally, he eased one out and then the other, but mama cow still couldn't budge her baby past her pelvis.
    I ran to the shed and came back with a sheep halter and a dog leash (in a pinch you use what's handy) and we looped them around the calf's hocks.  Then we grabbed the other ends (one for each of us) and began a slow steady pull. Mama mooed and grunted and pushed a little and like a cork in a very tight wine bottle, the calf slowly slipped out until he plopped on the ground behind his mama.
     Joe was surprised that it was alive because a backwards birth can often mean that the calf inhales amniotic fluid before it's born.  The calf was bubbling and frothing, but after mama backed out of the chute and turned to lick it, the calf stood on wobbly legs and got his first taste of milk.
    I love it when that happens.
     The next day, the two were moved back out to pasture and while we were doing that, we discovered a calf with a broken back leg.  Our guess is that it stepped in a hole.  The vet was called and Dr. Joe and my Joe crouched over the little calf in the field while mama cow pawed and snorted and pranced.  Then she ran far away and they were able to finish in peace.
     When the calf had a cast, Joe sat on the back of the pickup and we drove the calf over to his mama.  Joe bawled like a calf to get the cow's attention, but she looked up and at us and then ran the other way, back to where the calf had been. So, we left the calf and drove away.  There's no use playing tag with a cow and calf.  The cow doesn't know what we're doing and just runs away.  Better to leave the calf near other cows.  Eventually mama will find it, and she did.
     There's always something to worry about during the spring, but this time we had happy endings.

FAIR TIME

     Last week, the  hot humid days that have brooded over us for a month, sulked their way out of the county to be replaced by perky air spilling down from the northern regions. This was a sure sign that it was time for animals and baked goods and artwork and cloggers and canned goods and vegetables and quilts and derby cars to make their way to the back lot of the school for the Highland County Fair.
     I never appreciated fairs until I moved to a place where the fair is a homecoming event and the absolute center of the social scene for four and a half days.  School even lets out early the day before to accommodate all of the students who need time to wash and brush their animals one last time before registration and show day.
     Preparing animals for the fair is a family event that can start as early as the first day of the previous fair.  In the quest for bragging rights and a banner, parents and children eyeball the winners as they are paraded into the ring, and begin digging for answers.  "Where did they buy that steer?" "Who raised the lamb that won?"  "What bloodline should we pursue?"  The answers to these questions are sometimes closely guarded secrets until a winning family retires from the ring.
     After breeding decisions are made,  Mother Nature is left alone to do her work. Then in early spring, the flocks and herds are inspected for possible winners.  These lucky animals are brought into barns and lots for special feeding and lessons in show ring deportment.  The animals are as anxious to learn to be led as middle school boys are to learn manners.  A tug of war ensues and sometimes, if a steer is too headstrong, even tractors and donkeys are brought in to muscle the animal into docility.
    Once the future contestants are lead rope trained then the bathing and trimming and walking begin. Our boys raised and showed steers, sheep and hogs.  Each day, in the two months before the fair, the boys haltered the sheep and walked them at least a half a mile to help build muscular thighs.  In the interest of time, Joe and I helped.  Then the lambs were exchanged for the steers, who also got a walk.  After the steer strolling, the hog chasing began as there is really no way to train a hog to go where it doesn't feel inclined to go.  Hogs get their exercise by running away from frustrated humans.
    After an hour or two of dragging or evading humans, the animals were rewarded with a bath and brushing.  The next day, it started again.  Usually by fair time, we had gone from loving our fair pets to looking forward to days that weren't quite so full.  And, it's a good thing, because the day the animals are sold is still sad and would be sadder if we all weren't so tired of the whole process.
    This year, our seventh since the boys stopped showing, we walked around on the last night of the fair and watched families as they prepared their animals for departure.  Many were going on to the slaughter house to become someone's steak or bacon or lamb chop.  It's a hard night for the kids and some of the parents, and many make it a point to be out of the barn when the animals are loaded onto the trailers.  In spite of the relief that it's over for another year, there are tears shed in dark corners where the kids go so no one can see them cry.  Even the boys are a little pink cheeked when they finally come back to the barn.  But, the sadness doesn't last long.  There's work to be done.  Stalls to muck out one last time, halters to gather, equipment to load.  When everything is ship-shape, the families stand just outside the barn, leaning against fences to watch the fireworks show.  Then, they turn and head towards the truck for the last ride home. With no animals to take care of, everyone will sleep in tomorrow.

Killing Things

    When I was in second grade my teacher, Mrs. Williams, once scooped up a black widow spider, from a corner of the classroom, on a sheet of paper and, rotating it around to keep the spider from climbing onto her hand, she walked to the window and dumped it out, all the while telling us how poisonous black widows were.  This made quite an impression on me.  Even things that were dangerous deserved to live.
     I remained true to that belief, walking my own spiders outside (even two black widows) even after I married My Own Farmer and moved to the farm. Two years into our marriage,  I accidently dislodged a mama mouse from a bird box.  She scampered away from her nest, leaving five pink, pencil-eraser shaped nubbins behind.  They were her babies and it was my fault that they were now homeless.  I gathered them up, took them to the house and called my vet to see if he could recommend a suitable formula.  I think he covered the telephone receiver and snorted a few times before making his suggestions.
     When My Own Farmer came home that night and discovered the tiny box full of hairless, blind babies staying warm under a light bulb, he looked at me in total disbelief.  "You hate mice in the house," he said. "What are you doing?"  I shrugged.  "I don't know.  It just seemed like the right thing to do."  He raised his eyebrows and then sat down to read the paper.  I have to admit that I was thankful when they died in spite of my care.
    Later that year, I was at my mother-in-law's house when a raccoon wandered into the barn yard.  Geneva went outside and pitched rocks at it until it died.  She asked for my help, but I was too horrified to watch. Then she took a pitchfork and carried the body to a rock pile where she buried it.   "It might have had rabies," she explained.  Although I still didn't think I could have helped her kill it, I remember thinking what a strange new world I had married into.  Things like racoon stoning just didn't happen in the city.
     My lingering soft heart died one day when we were making hay.  As we rode around the bumpy field, tossing bales to the back of the wagon  and sweating in the brutal sun, the front wheel dropped into a deep groundhog hole.  The wagon pitched and yawed, almost righting itself before it finally keeled over, dropping all 140 carefully stacked bales  onto the meadow. We could have been killed, plus we had to re-load and re-stack that wagon full of bales.  It is twice as hard to stack bales that have to be pitched up from the ground than to stack the ones that are conveyed right to your hands by the baler.  I believe there was some cussing involved.
     The next time My Own Farmer got out his gun to shoot a groundhog in the hay field, I didn't whine about the sanctity of life.  I still didn't like the idea of killing critters, but suddenly I had a new perspective.
    Since that time, I've even requested the killing.  When my youngest was celebrating his fifth birthday, a skunk wobbled out of the woods above the house and headed down the hill to the celebration.  Perhaps he just wanted a slice of cake, but skunks don't usually come out during the day. I wasn't sure that he was healthy, so I rounded the children up and took them inside and called my husband who came home and shot the skunk.
     When a snake reared its head in the front yard and rattled two feet from my toddler, I screamed until someone brought a pistol out and killed it.   I still carry house spiders outside, but if I ever see a black widow in the house, I believe I'll squash it.
     Two weeks ago, when Lori and I went out at dawn to walk, we saw what we thought was a raccoon wobbling down the road.  It disappeared into the barn in front of my house and I worried about it all day. Where was it in relation to my livestock, my pets and my house?  Was it rabid?  That afternoon my questions were answered by my beagle Luke who began barking madly.  When I went outside to investigate, I discovered a mangy racoon hunkered under my chaise lounge on the patio.  It screamed at me when I peered underneath, so I grabbed the dog and ran inside.  My Own Farmer was at work in town, so I began dialing, looking for a neighbor with a gun.  Meanwhile, the racoon paced around the outside of my house, looking in my glass doors and chittering.  Not Normal!!
   By the time I reached a willing neighbor with a gun, the racoon had started staggering up my driveway.  It was getting away, and getting away meant that it could come back.  I would be trapped in the house forever.  As soon as the racoon was far enough away, I ran out to my car.  I couldn't let it disappear.
    As I followed the sick animal up the driveway it occurred to me that I did have a weapon I knew how to use.  My car.  I could run the racoon over.  So, I pushed the pedal to the metal and bounced up the hill.  The racoon dodged my wheels and continued climbing.  I followed it up the driveway, trying several more times to kill it, but missing. When my neighbor finally arrived and shot it, I was so shaken that I could hardly talk.  I realized that I had finally gotten to a point where I could consider killing something myself.
     I want a .22 caliber rifle and I want to learn to shoot it.  It's funny how your opinion changes when you're  trapped in the house by a crazy racoon.  It makes all the difference in how you see things.  I don't think I could ever deer hunt, even though I like to eat venison, but I want to be able to defend myself from snakes and rabid animals.  I've had enough experience, living out here in the back of beyond, to realize that sometimes a girls' gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Where the Fairies Hide

Sometimes you see them when you least expect it.  Not the fairies themselves, but their houses.  Such was the case today when I was pulling into my driveway.  I stopped to watch a chipmunk sitting on a log and ended up leaving the car and wandering through the woods in search of fairy houses.  The light was perfect for finding them.

The first one I spotted was tucked at the foot of an oak tree.  I fell in love with the little red table in the front yard.

Beyond that I saw a cozy little cottage built on the side of a hill.  There was no smoke coming from the chimney so I knew the fairies weren't home.

I realized I had stumbled into a small fairy neighborhood.   Each house was cuter than the next.

Just beyond the neighborhood, I spotted a playground.  The fairies must have run off as I approached.  They left their ball behind.

The playground was part of a larger park complex.  There was a visitor center perched on a hill...

and a small cabin with another one of those cute red tables set out front.

Beyond the park, a small fairy city was outlined with streetlights.

At the center of the city, I found  a beautiful restaurant, reminiscent of the Space Needle in Seattle.

I would have spent more time exploring, but I was chased away by one of the guardians of the community.

I was sorry to leave it all behind.  Perhaps I'll find another fairy land some day.  If I do, you can be sure, I'll post more pictures.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

     My Own Farmer and I had a date tonight.  When you live on a farm, dates can be few and far between. There's always something that needs to be done.  But, tonight we combined work with pleasure.  I rode with him to make a delivery on the far side of the county.
     Going for a ride is always special in a place where every road is a scenic drive.  Today was no different.  After several days of rain, the air was washed clean.  The grass was greener, the sky was bluer, the clouds were whiter.  The road curled its way through the valleys, each curve revealing a sweeter view than the next.
     My Own farmer grew up in these mountains and one of my favorite parts of our rides is what I call his litany of farms.  "There's the old Simmons' place.  Oh look Richard got a new backhoe.  He and his brother went in on it together.  See that?  Brendan is making good progress on the Pugh farm.  It's a shame that it got broken into pieces to be sold, but he'll make the house look good as new.  I see Mike got a new bull.  He better build some more fence to keep him in..."
     I learn a little something new each time we travel.  Which farms have been in the family for six generations, which old houses might be haunted, which barns are original, where old line fences used to go, who recently had to get rid of their sheep flock because of coyotes.
    After our ride, we go out to dinner.  There are two restaurants to choose from, but the menus are basically the same.   I know his order by heart...ham, mashed potatoes with gravy and coleslaw.  I always get a hamburger, so I guess he knows mine, too.
     The restaurant is hosting a rehearsal dinner in the back room and we can see the families celebrating.  MOF points out people he hasn't seen since high school and a few stop by to talk on their way to the bathrooms.  Two tables are occupied by tourists.  We can tell they aren't from here because, well, we don't know them.  But there are several tables full of friends and we pass the time waiting for supper talking about the play we're all going to see tonight.
     The play is the annual children's theater put on by the county art's council.  The kids have been working all day long for five days to learn lines, make costumes, and choreograph steps. This is the nineteenth year of this event and county grandparents often invite their grandchildren to come visit during this week so they can be a part of it all.  The local kids are always happy to make friends with kids they haven't known all their lives.
    Tonight's production is "Wonderland," a loose interpretation of Lewis Carroll's iconic work.  The tiniest actors are the most fun to watch and their chicken choir, singing about eggs with Humpty Dumpty, steals the show. Lines are forgotten, costumes come loose, actors forget to come on stage. There's an intermission so all the primaries can visit the bathroom.  It's a magical night.
    I've gotten spoiled out here.  There's no such thing as a private date.  When we're out, the community is part of our evening.  I don't think I could go back to living in a place where I don't know the faces and stories behind them.
Like the song says, I live in a place where:

everybody knows your name, 
and they're always glad you came. 

I'm always glad I came, too.

Frozen: The Sequel

      It’s wooly pop season again.  That’s the season of lambs popping out, but also the season of rejected lambs.  Some mama sheep ignore a lamb and this season is no exception.  We’re only two weeks into our first flock of lambers and already two lambs have spent the night in my great room.  

     The first was a little Suffolk cross lamb.  He has black ears and legs with a spotty white body and at three days old, he’s still small enough to cradle like a football.  His mama had triplets.  After her birth, Joe put her in a lambing jug in the barn.  Jugs are small pens which encourage mamas and babies to bond.  They are the final stop in our maternity ward before the ewe and lamb are turned back out on pasture.  For a couple of days, mama and baby are spoiled.    She gets light flakes of second cutting hay and buckets of water delivered just to her.  The lamb gets close access to his mama for warmth and milk.   Usually this results in a close bond between the two before they are turned out to pasture.  But not always. 

     He was a triplet, born in weather with minus degree wind chills. His mama gave birth to all three of her babies so fast that she didn’t have the time or inclination to clean off the first two before the last one dropped to the ground.  It goes that way sometimes.  So, he and his brother didn’t get dried off and they got cold.  Very cold.  When we found them their brother, who was the last born, was up and nursing. They were lying on their sides, legs out stiff, heads and necks thrown back.  We thought they were dead. 

     A closer inspection revealed sides fluttering with tiny breaths of air.  I put my finger in each of their mouths.  Cold.  When lambs are this far gone, it’s difficult to bring them back to life.  Their normal body temperature is about 103 degrees, so if their mouths feel cold, it’s far below that.  Lambs are amazingly resilient right after birth.  They land on the ground with bodies full of glucose which acts like antifreeze in their veins for 2-4 hours.  That usually gives them enough time to stand and start nursing.  Their mother’s first milk, which is like a thin, golden custard, is full of antibodies which help quick start the lamb.

     When a lambing goes well, the baby drops out behind his mama and she immediately turns to clean him off.  As she flicks her tongue over him, he lifts his head, shakes out his ears, and within ten minutes is usually pulling his legs underneath his body for the first rising.  Lambs instinctively head for the dark area between the ewe’s body and back legs.  That’s where the round globe of milk, her udder, dangles deliciously.  She noses his back end as he totters to the prize, nickering softly and licking her lips with pleasure at the scent of him.

     This little baby and his brother got none of that attention.  His mother was too distracted by her labor to notice them.  Then she was distracted by the last baby, cleaning him off while they lay in ten degree, windy weather, slowly freezing into lamb –sicles.  And then, because they were already too cold to lift their heads and bawl when she was done, she forgot that she’d had three.  She walked away leaving them as a gift to the barren earth. 

     One lamb died in the floorboard of our truck on the way back to the house.  The other hung on long enough to be placed in a sink full of warm water.  I held his limp head above the surface and swirled him around, adding hotter water slowly to bring his core temperatures closer to normal.  When his mouth felt warmer I dried his limp body and placed him on cardboard in front of our woodstove.  It has a blower at floor level, so he lay in a sirocco of wind and it wasn’t long before he began to quiver.  Soon his whole body was rattling as he shivered himself warm and in ten more minutes he began to bawl.

     I was ready.  Before we left the barn, we milked some colostrum from his mama.  Joe had held her head and neck, pressing her against the barn wall, while I reached under and coaxed a small stream into an empty Dr. Pepper bottle.  Mama grumbled and shifted, but she let her milk down and soon I had about a half a bottle full.  That bottle was sitting in warm water, waiting for this lamb.

     I tipped the bottle into the lamb’s mouth and it swallowed halfheartedly.  Some of the gold colostrum dribbled down his chin, so I eased up.  It’s easy to drown a lamb if it’s not ready to suck.  For the next hour, I dribbled drops of milk into the lamb.  Then it happened.  After an hour of half-hearted sucking, the lamb lurched to life.  It was that quick.  One minute he was limp and listless, the next he was pushing to his feet and sucking hard.

     This transition from near death to life always thrills me.  So many things can go wrong when you’re trying to resurrect a lamb.  It’s marvelous when it goes right.  The next morning we took him to the barn.  Step two of bringing lambs home is taking them back to their mamas.  We always hope that the mama will accept the lamb.  Sniff it, nicker, nudge it to her milk bag. 

     This little lamb was willing.  He jumped right up,  trying to nurse her, but she would have none of it.  After one sniff, she butted him away.  Every time he dove under her, she shifted denying him a meal.  At one point she even laid down in her jug.  So, we held her and let him nurse.  Sometimes that’s all it takes.  I was hopeful because the lamb was eager and his poop was going to smell like her milk.  That’s all he’d had so far.

     But, she must not have liked the fact that he’d been dunked in a hot bath.  He didn’t smell right.  He didn’t smell like her other lamb.  We left him with her for the day, stopping in twice more to hold her so he could nurse.  On our last visit, he looked hungry, so we let him nurse again and then went home to bed.

     The next morning, when we went out to the barn, he was lying in the corner of the jug, listless and cold.  UGH!  So, we gathered him up again, took him home again, and resurrected him again.  We had one more trick up our sleeves.  Once the lamb was lively, we took him back to the barn and his mama and confined her in a ewe stanchion.  It’s something we built especially for this situation.  The stanchion allows the ewe to stand, lie down, eat and drink, but she can’t turn around and butt the lamb.

He spent the day with her, but it just didn’t work.  Some lambs are not aggressive and he’s one of them.  He bawls constantly, but he just won’t get up and nurse often enough.  By that evening, the ewe had been released and the lamb was back in front of the stove, warming up yet again.

     Now, he’s out in the shed behind the house.  I am feeding him every 4-6 hours.  I remember when I first moved onto the farm.  I thought it was so much fun to have lambs to feed.  And it can be, for the right person.  So, I have a cute little spotted bottle lamb. He's resilient and would love a good home:  one where someone has the time to nurture him.  Don’t you want to join in the fun?  I've named him Elsa. He's ready to put his past behind him and just let it go.