I Turn On My Peacock


I know this title seems charged with sexual innuendo just to catch your attention so you’ll keep reading. Sadly, the title is entirely true. (Also, I want to catch your attention so you’ll keep reading.)

Our peacock Ben really does find me attractive, which I find unnerving. Peacocks routinely fan their feathers for the benefit of peahens, the message being: Aren’t I beautiful? Let’s breed. If there are no peahens, a peacock may fan for a particularly appealing duck. If desperate, peacocks have even been known to fan for a mere chicken.

Melissa does chores six days a week, so she’s part of Ben’s routine, and he rarely fans when she’s around. But when I do chores, it’s been six days since Ben has seen me, so I’m often the New Babe on the Block. I trudge through the huge bird pen, step inside the ten-by-ten foot shelter, then say Ben’s name. His head snaps up and he leaps down from his perch. Whump. Then he fans out his feathers. Whoosh. Then he drums his tail feathers. Frrrrrrrrt. He adjusts his position as I move about the shelter so I always have a full-on view of his brilliance. He stamps his feet, rattles those tail feathers again. Aren’t I beautiful? Let’s breed.

Let’s not, I reply. But there is no denying Ben is stunning. I don’t want to get into a long discussion about my spiritual beliefs, or non-beliefs, but if anyone, or anything, had a hand in designing peacocks, He or She was clearly showing off.

Ben’s long, slender neck is irridescent blue, the oval of lime green feathers directly behind setting the blue off nicely. His massive fanned tail is a study in symmetry of round, blue eyes. The rest of each feather is made of whispy pinkish-green fronds that stir with the breeze. What’s most amazing, however, is that the bottom edge of his plumage is a perfect horizontal line of eyes stretching from one corner of the fan to the other. Today one of these bottom feathers is out of place, but I pretend not to notice.

If Melissa wants a visitor to see Ben’s plumage, she sometimes comes to get me. When the visitors are positioned, I step into the shelter. “Hey, Ben.” His head snaps up and he leaps down from his perch. Whump. Then he fans out his feathers. Whoosh. Then he drums his back feathers. Frrrrrrrrt. Aren’t I beautiful? Let’s breed.

Winter Chores

Here’s a much-abbreviated but typical morning of winter chores at Rising Moon Farm:

Get dressed in insulated overalls, big boots, wool sweater, barn coat, and accessories. Trudge out to goat barn. Pet barn cats. Climb up into the hay loft, hard to do because of insulated overalls and big boots. Feed cats. Toss hay down hole into goat feeder below. Climb back down, playing peek-a-boo with cat.

Fill red bucket with chicken feed, knock politely on chicken house door, then step inside. Fill the feeders. Avoid stepping on the chickens, hard to do because of insulated overalls and big boots. Dump out waterer, refill, then put back on the heater keeping it from freezing.

Trudge through the snow 300 feet up to the sheep barn, hard to do because of insulated overalls and big boots. Fill feeders with corn, then let the lambs in to eat. Watch their back ends and decide that lambs have endearing butts. Look at their back legs and think of leg of lamb. Remind yourself to eat breakfast before doing chores next time.

Fill the sheep waterers. Wonder why the llamas are following you around, then remember you haven’t fed them yet. Feed the llamas. Climb into hay feeder and toss great chunks of hay around with pitchfork. Grunt loudly as you work, alarming the sheep. Open coat and fling off hat, mittens, scarf. Feel as if you are going to spontaneously combust, thanks to insulated overalls and big boots.

Thank the llamas for scaring off coyotes. Scratch Ewe #101's head. Trudge through snow back to the house, strip off sweaty insulated overalls and big boots, then collapse on floor.

Repeat next day.