Counting on Others

On a whim this evening, I got together with my friend Kim for a delicious Thai dinner at Noi downtown.  As everything is connected, I ask myself, "Was the food so delicious because the conversation was rich and enjoyable?"  Or "Was the diversity and honesty of the conversation born out of fresh, creative food?  To spend too much time inserting the experience into a logical calculation seems to detract from the beauty and simplicity of friendship and sharing.

One topic led to acknowledging the responsibility of having a ranch full of animals dependent upon me.    I make certain choices or pass on certain indulgences because I always want to be on the top of my game should there be something out of the ordinary with the animals.  Ordinary?  Well...

When I got back home it was just after dusk.  I changed from my "dining out" clothes to my "how many times can my jeans be licked, smudged, wiped upon, muddied up or covered in hay" clothes and set out to complete my evening chores.

First on the list, lock in the hens.  The big girls know to go home at dusk and they each have their own spot that they prefer.  The chicklets are still sorting out their place in the pecking order.  Cinnamon was perched up on the top wire of the 5' no climb fence, as she has taken to doing.  Ginger had decided to sink down into a nesting box, although a gender check is in order with this little one.  But where was Spice?

My small flashlight was not sufficient for looking for a reddish/brown hen in the dark.  Back to the house I went and came out armed with my mag light.  I have learned from a previously missing hen to start looking in the surrounding trees.  I did, and there she was, about 5 1/2 feet up in a tree.  She's a very sweet hen and she likes, as I interpret it, to be cuddled.  I gathered her up, wrapped my arms around her, stroked her maturing feathers and brought her inside to join the rest of the flock.  All ten accounted for.  All ten locked in for the night.

Yes, a big thank you to Archangel Ariel, the protector of animals, was in order.  It's a lot of work to care for all of these animals and each of them has moved deep into my heart.  My dedication to them is all about love, both giving and receiving love.  It's a great weight and knowing someone else is looking over my precious charges gives me comfort and relief.

Mango Unchained

They say we gain wisdom as we get older.  I am giddy with my new found wisdom of late.

Not so long ago I was contemplating the purchase of that dainty six pack of Champagne mangoes.  My reluctance to do so was that I found it frustrating that I wasted so much of the fruit when I peeled and cut it.  My mango serving was never pretty like the fruit plates I ordered while dining out.

This is where the wisdom begins to flow, like melting ice cream down the sides of a sugar cone.  If they can make mango look so pretty at restaurants, there must be an efficient and productive way to slice a mango at home!

Years ago, I would have consulted the L-M volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica on the bookshelf.  Again, dipping my hand into my rapidly developing piggy bank of wisdom , I went directly to youtube.  I typed in "cutting a mango."  Sure enough there it was: a video instruction of how to cut and peel a mango.

The video I came across was of a laid back Asian guy sitting in his living room.  On the coffee table in front of him he had a cutting board, knife, spoon, and of course, a mango.  He inspired me.

All these years I have been making a full on mess with my mangoes--juice everywhere, a variety of useless utensils on the counter, mango on my chin as I tried to chew it out of the skins.  Now, simple, done in less than a minute, like a pro.

The goodles get the skins, the hens get the pit and momma has a pretty row of mango slices on her plate.

So smart.

Go Ahead. Just Rip My Heart Out

Hate is a very ugly word and if the Dalai Lama can give me a better word to describe this feeling I have, I will use it.  In the meantime, I hate coyotes.

This evening I lost three hens, not including Karen earlier in the week.  And what about Dumpling's injuries which led to her death a few weeks back?  In my deepest of prayers, I ask that two of those hens are up in a tree somewhere and will be back tomorrow.  The fate of the third is certain.

After a very stimulating three hour dance workshop followed by a well deserved enjoyable early dinner with my friend Kim and then a quick stop and try on of many at the essential oils section of Whole Foods, I made my way back home.  As I pulled in the driveway, Red and Honey were coming toward me.  I did think it a bit strange that they would be headed in my direction at 7:45pm but then again, the days are getting longer, so I passed it off as that.

I came in the house to change and then head out to do my evening chores.  It was still plenty light out.  As I came to the hay shed, Honey was perched up on a board and settled in as if to sleep there.  Strange.  And I passed that off as wondering if she was not feeling well again.  I scooped her up and brought her home and as we approached the hen house, she squawked and squirmed.  Why were there only five hens in the house?  Red wasn't there so I passed that off as him being out escorting the last few girls back home.

From out in the dry lot, I heard a rumpus from my neighbor's hen house.  Could have just been the hens settling down for the night except that both Bodie and Pinkie were keying in on something in the air and they were both at the fence on alert.  I called Aaron to ask if his hens were locked in and he told me more or less but that they have lost a few over the past weeks.  Just as he said that, I saw two coyote walking toward his hen house.  In my strongest voice possible that could carry over the rushing canal, I yipped for them to move along.  Aaron was out of town fighting fires being set by a pesky arsonist up in Montana but when he comes back tomorrow, he will set out with his bow and arrow with the intention of taking out a coyote or two.

Hanging up from Aaron, I turned around to notice Red sitting up on the rail of the tack room.  The previous hints of something amiss were passed off, but this was too strange.  I walked him back to the hen house, counted my hens again, closed up the door and started looking around.

I found black and white feathers of one of my Barred Rock hens on both sides of the fence by the hen house.  On the other side, there was a significant pile of them that told me the hen was snatched near the fence on my side, carried over and disposed of on the other side.

The sun was setting and seeing clearly through my tears was becoming a challenge.  I couldn't find any other feathers nearby.  But who was it?  It was either Baby or Alice, my two oldest girls, or Precious, one of my first year babies.

It still leaves two hens unaccounted for, not forgetting Karen.  They would be another one of the Barred Rock hens and either Cat or Helen, one of my Rhode Island Reds.  The hens in the house were tucked in and under so I couldn't tell which one of those were in the house and who was missing.

It is always heart breaking to lose an animal; goodness knows I've said that before.  But to come home and find three of your hens gone, it just rips your heart straight from its safe place behind the ribcage and dangles it out as coyote bait.

Can a Rooster Count?

One of my baby hens, Honey, is in my chicken special care unit for tonight.  With much hope she will pass the remainder of a bound egg.  My special care unit is so flexible, it changes names depending on which animal is in there.  But, to my point.

In the early evening, I walked down to the hen house to collect any pearls the girls may have left for me.  Two.  The other 10 hens were inside their high rise, settling in at dusk, but Red was pacing outside.  He was looking around, under the big juniper and back out again.  I believe he was looking for Honey.

Red is one very gentle, respectful Rooster.  He is loyally protective of his girls.  He tries to mount them every now and again and if they scoot out from under him, he just goes around in a circle almost a little embarrassed that he even tried.  So, here it was, time to head in to safety for the night and one of his hens was missing.

In my best gallo speak, I explained that she was with me and assured him I was looking after her for the night.  I hope he understood me.  The last thing I would want is for Red to think he lost a hen on his watch.

Sweet dreams, Red.

Silly Hen

It's a bit after 11pm and the poodles and I just got back in from a late evening feed and then a 15 minute forensic search for one of my hens.

I went down late to lock them in and only counted 11.  One of my black and white Barred Rock hens, either Alice or Baby, was missing.  It's never a good feeling.

My headlamp wasn't strong enough to do a thorough search on a winter's night of the new moon.  The stars are magnificent but still not enough wattage for a hen search.  So, back to the house to get my mag light and back down to continue looking.

Oh, the temperature is about 9 degrees.  I wasn't so cold but I was concerned that if I couldn't find her that my hen was in a safe place where she alone could keep herself warm.  They have quite a suit of downy feathers these days, but at night they nuggle together on their roosting bar.  I'm not sure if it's for warmth or safety.

Going through my list of previous experiences with missing hens, I felt optimistic that she had not been snatched by a predator but for some reason did not return the hen house when everyone else did.  This is when I wish my dogs were trained to flush out a bird.  There is a lot of sage bush around and plenty of trees where she could hide.

After coming around for the second time, I started to look up.  Maybe instead of digging in to the dirt as they do during the day, she went up to roost.  Whew!  Big sigh.  There she was perched on a branch of their favorite Juniper tree.  It's so big and full with very low hanging branches and plenty of loose dirt around the bottom that there is where they spend a lot of their time.

Thankfully I could push through the branches enough to pick up my hen and bring her back home.  Red the rooster had much to say about her clucklings; perhaps a welcoming back home, perhaps a disciplinary comment.  It was a  satisfying feeling to close up that door knowing all 12 of my chickens are safe and sound and settling down for a long winter's nap.

Safe Flight, My Hens

Jeff and Heather, Chris, Brittany and their two month old angel Luca came over this evening to take several of my hennies to their new home.

The upkeep of three hen houses and the care of 18 hens and one rooster is a challenge for one person.  Jorge, the ranch hand, has been instructed to no longer help me with any of the animal care.  How unfortunate.

A great part of Jorge's love for his job has been working with the animals.  He told me he is uncomfortable with this new directive as he recognizes the labor involved for one person.  He said he was sad about it because he misses the interaction with the animals and the variety in his day, making it anything but routine.

It does tug at my heart to see him drive by the animals and not stop and do some of the things he used to do.  He actually looks the other direction.  He is fighting his instinct as he is a natural caregiver.  The animals do not understand his distance.  They grew fond of him, his kindness and his gentle ways.  The goats used to get daily rides in the golf cart.  Now it's as if he shuns them, but I know it is not so.

The time has come to ease my load a bit.

Juliet, Ruby, Blanca, and Zorra, four of my new baby hens, were put in the poultry crate along with Dumpling and Black, two of my one year old hens.

Dumpling has been like a mother hen to the babies.  She has been showing them around the ranch and the places to find bugs, take a dirt bath and where there is protection and shade for a nap.   When they scratch up by the grasses at the canal, she is always with them.  Black is a very docile Black Australorp who ruffles no feathers.  They will be a harmonious flock.

Chris and Jeff are biologists for the Wildlife Services.  I met Jeff when he answered my call for help in investigating what was killing my ducks.  He's smart.

Jeff had mentioned he was setting up his new chicken coop.  As you may imagine, it is entirely secure and predator proof.  When I made the decision to re-home a few of my hens, he was the first person who came to mind.  Jeff had his flock established already but Chris was just beginning his.

As sad as it was to hand over my hand-raised babies and grown girls, there was a sense of relief.  A touch of relief in my daily chore load; a greater relief that my girls were alive when I said good bye.  It doesn't always work that way on the ranch.

Drakes in Eclipse

The local feed store is like a quick and easy trip to the reference section of the library.  They seem to know quite a bit about everything.

A couple of weeks back, Bill was loading feed into the 4 Runner, which was carefully guarded by cookie loving dogs, and we got to talking about his duck hunting.  Hunting of any kind isn't my favorite topic but I'm starting to understand the "food for the family" aspect.

I mentioned to Bill that all of my male Mallards, the drakes, have disappeared.  For some reason I have a pond loaded with females, hens.  He laughed.  "No," he said, "you have just as many drakes as before."

Drakes in eclipse is what I had plenty of in my pond.  After mating season, the drakes molt and lose their beautiful colorful plumage.  The look just like the hens!  Now, a real duck person can tell the difference.  Thankfully, I can now consider myself a "real" duck person.

Bill told me to look at their bills.  Drakes have yellow bills and hens have brownish/orange bills.  Their feet also are a clue.  The drakes have bright orange feet.  Sure as the day is long, I have a pond with a healthy mix of drakes and hens!

In the last week or so the drakes have begun to get their colors back.  It happens rather quickly.  Now, aside from a few late bloomers, their heads are a magnificent shimmering green once again. 

What a funny thing that happened at my pond.  It's another lesson learned.  It just doesn't stop.

Peaceful at Times

I say "peaceful at times" because at a moment's notice, that peace can transition to chaos.

Just now, while quietly writing a new blog post, I had to jump up and run clear across the porch. Shadow was eating my lavender plant. In response to my reprimand, he comes running across the porch, up onto the chair, onto the table and then across my keyboard!

I thought for certain my laptop was doomed, yet here I sit.

Next, Pippin pulled a big branch off the plant. He runs away and when he comes back for let's kiss and make up lovin's, his breath is herb fresh. Petunias are next on the menu.

Just as I push one 50lb goat out of the front flower planter, the other 40lb one jumps in. It's a circus.

No sooner do they move on do Bodie and Pinkie come charging across the porch in their afternoon chase and scatter the hens that are sprawled out behind me, protected from the breeze.

Pippin is back, under the table, pushing it up with his budding horns. Next on to pushing the reclining lounger across the porch to getting up into it. And finally, to rest and chew cud.

Peaceful at times.

My Dogs Aren't Just Cute

I may have mentioned our rogue rooster before. If he isn't careful, there may not be much more to mention about him!

This pesky rooster just goes out of his way to find me and attack me. Yes, I have tried all the things people say to do to let him know who's boss, but he just doesn't buy it. My left shin has what seems might be a permanent reminder of one of his attacks.

This afternoon I went in the hen pen to feed and only Baby was there. Not unusual, she usually stays close to home while the others are off on any part of the ranch at any given moment. We had our little chat, she said thank you and out I went.

I was outside the hen house collecting eggs and out of nowhere Peep Peep comes charging at my legs! I caught the flash of his tailless body as he lunged forward and I was able to get my foot out to push him back. As I was grabbing the broom--he is relentless--I was yelling, "Bodie!"

In no time did my caped Mini Australian Shepherd come running around the hen pen, he looked up at me to get the okay and he went to work. Bodie is a herding dog. Peep Peep got herd.

Because this has happened, oh I don't know how many times before, we've got a routine. Bodie runs him around for a bit then looks back at me for the signal to come back-- or no signal.

I mean, how comforting is that to know that I can call out for my dog and he will come running ready for whatever job is awaiting him?!

Now Pinkie, she's more of a chewer than a chaser. She now understands that the ducks and hens are not part of her free-choice plate, but I always keep a close eye on her as she tends to crouch and stalk.

Two days ago I was again at the hen pen and Peep Peep comes after me (this time he hit me hard but I had on my tall boots, just a little ouch.) I called out, "Bodie!" Pinkie was just beside me and from the distress in my voice, she knew her momma needed help.

I wasn't quite sure how it was going to turn out for Peep Peep but my girl had learned the lesson well. She immediately darted toward him and had him running--faster than Bodie makes him run. When I called her off, she came back to me right away just as Bodie was keying in on the rooster from the other side.

Honestly, I have never felt so protected and loved as by these dogs. Larry keeps telling me, "They'll never let anyone near you" but what do I know about those things. He's right.

My superhero and supershero watch me like a hawk (bad analogy around here) and they want nothing more than to make me happy and keep me safe and sound. And let's face it, that cookie they get when we go back in the house isn't that bad either.

It's Not Easy Waking a Sleeping Chicken

A typical ranch day, if there is such a thing, concludes with counting all six chickens and locking up their pen.

Just before dusk they all make their way back to their hen house and climb in, make a heck of a ruckus organizing themselves, and then they settle in for the night. I count them up just to be sure all have returned, and then close their gate so no night-time predator can create its own ruckus with my hens.

It has been getting darker earlier and I was behind in my evening duties. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 5? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Hmmmmmm. It's Alice. Where is she? It was hard to see and to top it off, Alice is black and white.

I set out calling her, looking in all the places they visit throughout the day, under tree roots, under cars and trailers, in the creek, by the horse snack dishes (see photo.) Was it that monster hawk who got her?

Lately, my hens have been laying their eggs up in my hay bales. They have 4 perfectly comfortable and sheltered nesting boxes, but apparently they've tired of them. For days I was wondering if they had stopped laying eggs as there weren't any in the hen house when I would go collect them. It didn't make sense. My hens weren't quite a year into their laying.

Then one day I followed the hens out of their pen in the morning and watched one head straight for the hay shed, hop up a few bales, climb onto a wood post (see another photo) and then go down between the wood sides and the hay bales and tuck herself into a hole created in the hay bales (see other photo.) When she finally came out, I looked in and found 5 eggs! The jackpot.

So now, I climb in between the wood sides and hay bales and slowly lower myself down as to not catch myself on the snags on the wood and reach in, blindly because the space is so tight I can't turn my head, and retrieve the eggs.

Well, back to this evening of missing Alice. It dawned on me, maybe she's in her nesting spot. I look in from the horse lot beside and there she is, sleeping. I can't leave her there overnight, she'd be exposed to the feral cats, raccoons, and whatever else would climb in to bother a chicken. I couldn't climb in to get her because I had seen Bodie climb in there and a startled chicken fly out and that wasn't pretty on account of the lack of room to maneuver.

So there I stood, on the other side of the posts calling to the sleeping chicken: "Alice!" "Kiss Kiss Kiss" "Wake up girl!" "yooooo hooooo!"

It's not easy to wake a sleeping chicken. In fact, they tell you that the easiest way to catch a chicken or rooster is at night...if you can reach them.

So I took a stick and pushed it through to the hay and got her to perk up a bit. Then I had to scare her to get her out. Ugh. She jumped out, over the bales, down to the ground and ran straight for the hen house--and they can run as fast as 9 mph.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Clink went the gate lock.

Now, we have 6 ducks and a goose. They swim in the pond. Can you imagine what it's like trying to round them up to get them in at night? There is an owl that perches overhead; they seem oblivious. I have spent lots of time going from one end of the pond to the other trying to get them out. And look! They can swim clear to the middle! (see duck photo)

Despite how it may appear, my days are never the same.

Just Like a Strand of Pearls

One of the friendly guys at the feed store told me that chickens have a finite number of eggs to lay. He said, "...think of them like a strand of pearls."

What an analogy.

Yesterday, Alice, one of our Barred Rock hens, laid her first egg! I was sick in bed so Larry went down to collect Juanita's daily pearl and came back to tell me we were blessed with two pearls!

I thought it was pretty grand to have hens laying eggs. But now--we have Bend-cultured pearls. Perfect small, brown, smooth, sometimes warm, and laid with love pearls.

Tiffany's ain't got nothin' on this hen house!

Could She Be a He?

Black Top. Esperanza. Alice. Peep Peep. Baby. Juanita. The names of our 6 chics, now 9 weeks old, and soon to be egg laying hens.

I was out watering the vegetable garden and I heard a call of some sort, something along the lines of the horn of a Model T Ford. "Well, that was weird" I thought to myself. And then I heard it again, sounding like it was coming from the chicken pen.

As I walked toward the pen, I saw Peep Peep, named so because she was the most vocal peeper at 2 days old when we picked up the chics, standing tall up on top of the water tower, neck stretched, tail straight up, wings pulled back, honking like a Model T Ford.

Not quite a cluck. Not a cock-a-doodle-doo. But definitely not a peep.

Okay, so we noticed that Peep Peep is a bit larger than the other 5 chics. She tends toward the bossy side. The beginning of her crown seems a little redder than the others, but is that really significant? We've been wondering.

Could it be? Could there be a cockeral amongst our pullets?

Stay tuned.