Testosterone

Not all farm stories have happy endings. A few weekends ago I was visiting my mom in Wisconsin when Melissa called. Duncan, our big, black-faced ram, was dying. Melissa has seen enough dying animals to know when there's the possibility a vet might save the animal, and when there isn't. Remember that sheep hide their illnesses until it's almost too late. It's a hard, hard call, but during our first five years on the farm we spent a great deal of money on vet bills for animals that didn't live.



Duncan is the big ram in the middle (surrounded by some young rams as they all try out their best pick-up lines on the shy girl on the other side of the fence.) Without those eight wires of electricity, I guarantee there would have been some unauthorized sheep sex going on as a result.

Duncan was born on this farm, and has lived the last three years out in the pasture with Erik, our white-faced ram. They spend 11 months together, then for a month they each live with their own harem of ewes. When breedings is over and we put the rams back into the same pen, we must put pallets all over the floor. Pallets prevent them from backing up and getting a good run at each other, since after breeding is over the rams are still feeling protective and in a fighting mood, and will bash heads so violently necks can break. We hear stories all the time about rams killing each other. Like I've said before, "ram" is not just a noun.

After the rams have lived in the pen with the pallets for a day, we pick up the pallets, and the boys are fine.

The best thing for Duncan was to end his suffering, whatever had gone wrong (Melissa suspected a urinary problem, which had killed another of our rams years ago despite the vet's attempts to save him.) So the next day our friend Lloyd came over, killed Duncan swiftly, then he and Melissa did a post-mortem.

Turns out one of Duncan's kidneys was severely damaged...the sort of damage you'd only see from a major blow to the body. There's nothing in that pasture that could damage Duncan... except Erik.

Testosterone. I know we all have it in varying amounts, and that it can do great things, but it also leads rams to---for whatever reason---ram each other.

For a week after Duncan's death, Erik was alone in his pasture, and he didn't like it. Every time Melissa walked by he'd come running, bleating frantically. I don't know if he missed Duncan specifically, or if he just didn't like being alone. Lloyd drove by a few times and saw Erik standing out in the pasture, woefully alone. "It's your own fault, buddy," Lloyd said.

Finally the main flock had rotated through the pastures close enough to the barn that Melissa and I could lure Chachi (our oldest llama) away from the flock and lead him into Erik's pasture so the ram would have some company.

Erik has stopped bleating, and looks calmer. He can't ram Chachi's body because the llama is too tall. Also, if Erik does try to ram him, I'm hoping Chachi will bring a wad of green, smelly, partially chewed cud up his throat, and spit it all over Erik.

Good thing I'm not bitter, eh?

Truth is, I'm really not. Rams bash each other with the intent to harm, but they also love to play, knocking heads and pushing each other around.

I guess sometimes that play---or testosterone---gets carried away.

Then, and Now


Here's a photo of Chachi then.



Here's a photo of Chachi now!



Yup, it's true. He's naked. In fact, all the llamas are naked.

Annie, who reads this blog and lives nearby AND knows how to shear llamas, introduced herself in an email and volunteered to shear our llamas. We took her up on her generous offer.

It was quite a complicated day involving a neighbor, a radio interview, and two llamas.

Annie, sole caregiver for her mother-- who has Alzheimer's-- drove her mom to our neighbor's house. (Jaycee, a nurse, graciously volunteered to watch Annie's mom for a few hours.)

Annie's mom is quiet, with an occasional delightful twinkle in her eye, and tends to walk around the house picking up things and putting them in her pocket. It's kind of cute, but it does make Annie's life difficult.

Melissa and Annie went up to the barn and began shearing. I drove our car to the end of our driveway so no one could come in and set our three dogs barking because I was going to be interviewed on the radio, and needed the house quiet. The dogs stayed quiet, the interview went well.

In the afternoon I took over watching Annie's mom while Melissa and Annie sheared the second llama. Annie's mom mostly slept, patted our border collie, and didn't put anything in her pockets.

When the day was done, I was amazed at how small our llamas look without all that hair. Annie came back to the house tired, sweaty, and dirty, but grinning. The day had been a welcome break from caring for her mother. I've never been a caregiver, but if a day spent shearing two reluctant, 300-pound llamas is an easy day....Heavens....

A few weeks later Melissa felt confident enough to shear the third llama herself, so two hours later, Chachi was many pounds lighter.

How do you shear a llama? By tying him in this little holding set-up Melissa made years ago. The 2x4s along the side keep the llama from moving too much, but he can still dance from side to side and backwards and forwards. Melissa just danced with him and kept shearing.




Looks like the llama exploded, doesn't it?!

We are so grateful to Annie for coming. She writes a wonderful blog about caring for her mother at maplecorners.blogspot.com. Annie, we thank you. Our llamas thank you!

More Then, and Now....


Those little baby chicks are now half-grown hens. Unfortunately there are only six now, not eight, since two disappeared. A few weeks ago Mother Hen said "I'm done," and started sleeping in the chicken house, leaving the babies on their own in the shed. After a week, they, too, drifted into the barn and began perching on the tool pegs!




More Then, and Now...


Puppy then...





Puppy now.




The interesting thing about a farm is that it's always changing. People often ask me, "Anything new on the farm?" There's always something new, but it's just part of the same cycle...animals being born, and growing...hair growing long, being shorn, then growing long again. Thanks to Annie, we're better able to deal with one part of that cycle.

Farm Woman Invents New Pie


I've always admired the Farm Woman Icon---a woman able to raise her own vegetables, milk the cow and make her own cheese, and whip up a hearty meal when twenty people suddenly drop by.

If you've read any of my books, you know I am none of the above. My Aunt Ilene in North Dakota is. She has two freezers--each about a mile long--- filled to the brim with stuff she's made. If she ever broke her leg and couldn't cook, she and my uncle could live for two years on what's in those two freezers. So this cooking and baking gene is in me somewhere, but I fear it lies dormant.

Until now. I have invented a new sort of pie. The Farmer and I picked strawberries the other day, and they were so beautiful we couldn't stop picking. In 45 minutes we'd picked 18 pounds, and could have kept going. Since I ended up cleaning them, I'm grateful we stopped at 18 pounds.



Then I began making strawberry pies. I don't actually eat strawberry pies, as I dislike cooked fruit of any kind (yes, I know that's weird.) But the Farmer in this house loves strawberry pies, and strawberry-rhubarb pies, so I decided I could be a Real Farm Woman and bake some pies for the girl.

I'd like to say I made the crusts from scratch, but I won't. (Thank you, Pillsbury Dough Boy.)

I took these lovely strawberries....




And made a pie. In the process I invented something new: The Floating Crust Pie. I plan to register this invention with the Patent Office so I'll get all the credit and own the idea.

Basically, you press the bottom crust into the pan. Then you fill the pan with berries and sugar. Then you lay the top crust onto the pie, and here's where my innovation comes in. Instead of moistening the edges of the two crusts so they bond, or folding them over together, or generally pinching them correctly to form a tight seal, you just press the top crust onto the bottom crust and figure that will be good enough.

Then when the pie is in the oven, and the hot fruit begins to boil up, the top crust will lift off the pan and begin floating. It's amazing. This floating top crust then allows the fruit filling, in this case strawberries, to ooze out the edges of the pan and down onto the bottom of your hot oven. It's fun to watch the top crust floating free on an ocean of molted strawberries.

After inhaling the incredible scent of pie burning on the oven bottom, I finally took out the finished pie, a little stunned at the mess I'd created. Only after I'd set out for my walk did I realize I'd cleverly invented a new pie. I planned to photograph my invention, but then I remembered the Farmer was loose in the house so I raced back, relieved there was something left to photograph.




The Floating Crust pie must be tasty, since the Farmer has inhaled the rest of it, and I've since made another one. My mother, grandmothers, and aunts will be so proud when they learn what I've done....Too bad I have no intention of telling them...

The Feral Chicken

Last fall the residents of a house about 3/4 of a mile away moved out. We didn't realize it at the time, but they just left their small flock of chickens and geese to fend for themselves. (Don't get me started on how cruel people can be when it comes to animals.) While poultry are great at finding food and water, they aren't so skilled at avoiding predators. By the time we learned the birds had been abandoned, weeks had gone by, and we knew it'd be too late to rescue them---they would have either left the property in search of food or been eaten.

But then one evening Melissa saw a chicken in some woods bordering our north pasture, far from where our chickens live, and not that far from the abandoned house. Minnesota isn't known for its feral chickens, but I think this chicken qualified.

Melissa tried trapping her in a cage, but the wily bird didn't fall for it. Melissa grew increasingly worried about the bird surviving predators and the winter, so she started visiting the area at dusk, watching for the hen.

Finally one evening she saw the bird about 30 feet up in a gigantic pine tree. When it gets dark, birds find a place to roost and are easier to catch.

Did I mention the bird was 30 feet up the tree? Apparently, if one easily climbed trees at age five and fifteen, it's nothing to climb 30 feet up a tree at age 50. Lordy, if I'd known what the woman was up to, I'd have thrown a fit.

But instead, Melissa returned to the house on her 4-wheeler, triumphant, with pine bough scratches all over her arms, and holding the feral chicken.

Having been on her own for so long, the chicken had some adjusting to do when put in with the other hens. She was defensive and hard to get along with, but at least she had food, water, and a safe place to roost at night.

Early this spring she began spending a lot of time in the shed. In fact, she hid back among the junk and started spending all her time there. When we'd open the shed in the morning, the hen would dash out and head to the barn for food and water.

Then one day our friend Mary was in the shed and heard peeping. Turns out our feral hen had been sitting on a nest, and hatched out 8 little chicks.




Not surprisingly, she's a ferocious mother, and keeps the cats at bay. Although one day I did see Eddie stalking the little family, so he and I had a serious discussion about this topic. I had to have the same discussion with Maisie the other day. Hopefully they both got the message.




Because the little chicks were sitting in the water bowl, Melissa was worried about drowning (it's happened before) so note the rocks in the red bowl below...ensures the chicks can easily get in and out of the water.



The chicks have wing feathers now, and run around the shed like they own the place, which, I guess, they do... not a bad piece of real estate for a formerly feral chicken.

Whew, We Made It Again




In one of our shortest lambing seasons ever, all but five ewes have given birth in just two weeks. So other than these few stragglers, we're done! As usual, I'm delighted, and Melissa's face grows longer and longer as reality sets in. She loves finding new baby lambs on the pasture, and thinks she has the best job on the planet.




Our helpers think it's pretty great as well.






Here I am trying to hold four bottle lambs in stairstep formation, but they're too squirmy for a photo!




Look at the little pipsqueak on the right in the photo below. She was a triplet (as are all the other bottle lambs) but came out 1/3 the size of a regular lamb. Luckily after a few shaky days, she's up and running, hopping around like a piece of popcorn, and has just gone to a new home.



Most ewes make great moms. Here are three wary ewes who don't like that I'm in the pasture. Each is standing guard over at least one lamb. The lambs snuggle down into the grass until you almost can't see them.




This ewe has just given birth to triplets. ChaChi has come over to check out the new ones, and is gently sniffing a lamb at his feet.




There's a whole lot of sleeping going on at this farm. Bottle lambs snooze after a big meal:




The calves are clearly uptight about their lives:



I'll leave you with a few pasture images....



(No, that black sheep above isn't standing on Zipper's back....just a photo issue!)





Our reward for the hard work of the last two weeks are all little strong, healthy, and robust babies running around on the pasture. One of these days I'll figure out the whole video thing and show you what I mean.

A Farm Play in One Act

Setting: Small barn on Rising Moon Farm
Characters: Lamb, Calf


Lamb: "What are you in for?"



Calf: "I think it's for being too cute. I keep hearing them say, "You are just too cute."



Lamb: "Bummer. So, how do we get outta this joint?"



Calf: "We have to stop being so cute."





Lamb: "Yeah, like that's ever going to happen."

THE END

What?

This morning after we finished feeding the calves, I went inside to start cleaning the house, and Melissa did a few more chores. Thirty minutes later she came inside, beaming. "Guess what?" she asked.

"No! It's too early! I haven't cleaned the house or bought groceries or anything." And we hadn't moved the sheep from the barn out onto the pasture, where they'd start lambing. We had a few more days until the lambs started coming.

Why do I think I have any control over these events?

Melissa had looked up toward the barn to see a ewe glancing furtively over her shoulder toward the barn, as if she was hiding something she didn't want Melissa to see. That's a clear sign that the ewe IS hiding something she doesn't want Melissa to see.

Melissa tramped up there, and found three sets of twins that had been born either last night or early this morning. It was barely 40 degrees this morning, but the three ewes had gone into the barn to give birth...not the most sanitary of places, but the warmest.

So, it's begun, again, and with a bang.

First set of twins:




Second set of twins:




Third set of twins:






Meanwhile, this ewe is still pregnant:



And this one is still pregnant:



And this ewe is still very, very pregnant (as are all the rest of the ladies):


It's fitting that the ewes started giving birth today, of all days:

Happy Mother's Day!